


Alter

by luvkurai



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alpha!Will, Alpha!hannibal, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Case Fic, Developing Relationship, Dubious Consent, Food Porn, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, Manipulation, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Possessive Behavior, Sex Change, Sexism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-10
Updated: 2015-07-01
Packaged: 2018-01-08 06:40:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 25,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1129505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luvkurai/pseuds/luvkurai
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>God, as is somewhat characteristic of such a vast and preoccupied being, has made a mistake in the classing of Will Graham. Will should have been born an omega—Hannibal’s perfect mate. Where god has failed, Hannibal will correct the error and perfect him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've been working on this fanfiction for more than six months. When the idea first came to me last summer, it was intended to be a spin on the various ways Hannibal messes up Will's life in the show. The story has evolved significantly since then, but that element remains. Hannibal is a terrible person in the canon and he is a terrible person in this story. I have this marked as dubcon, but the levels of manipulation present could very well allow it to be read as noncon. 
> 
> That being said, I hope you all enjoy the ride. It's a lot of build up, the payoff is real.

_So… how far does this go? Do you put out the fire or do you let him burn?_  

 

 

The knock at his office door interrupts his artistic reexamination of his most recent hunt—a restaurant owner without a working understanding of _customer service._ He gutted the female beta and left her body hung in the freezer of her own restaurant, seared her liver with truffle-infused olive oil and paired it with an altered tabbouleh recipe of his own creation. After tucking his sketchbook away, he opens the door to find Will Graham—a full hour early.

“William,” he greets with a nod. Glances down at his watch despite the fact he knows very well what time it is. “I did not expect you until seven.”

“I hope it’s alright,” he replies, cocking his head and feigning interest in the office beyond to bypass necessary eye contact. “I was _um—_ in the neighborhood?”

 _Unlikely,_ but Hannibal steps aside to let his friend, patient and colleague enter the room.

“I brought wine.”

Hannibal accepts the outstretched bottle. The label is one he recognizes—Will likely recalled being served it by Hannibal himself and knew it would be appreciated. “You needn’t have, but thank you.”

It is a Sauvignon Blanc from New Zealand. Hannibal is mildly impressed with the choice, is more impressed that Will expended the effort on him.

As the cork pops out and the pale yellow wine flows into two stemless glasses, Will takes his usual seat in one of the leather chairs. Leaning down to place the crystal glass gently on the table beside Will, Hannibal catches the man’s scent with as much clarity as he can the aroma of gooseberry and green capsicum in the wine.

As is Hannibal, Will Graham in an alpha, and therefore his pheromones are strong enough to Hannibal’s trained nose to pick them up over the faded stench of Old Spice perpetually staining the man’s clothes and skin. The underlying smell is meant to warn Hannibal of his presence so he may take initiative to evict him from his territory. It is interesting, from both an evolutionary and a sociological perspective, that humanity has developed to the point of no longer brashly attacking rivals, becoming acquaintances instead and cohabiting in near places without dispute.

But Hannibal would consider himself and William to be more than mere acquaintances. Will may stray from using the word with Hannibal as he does with all those around him, may call him formally as ‘Doctor Lecter’ rather than the more familiar ‘Hannibal’—but they are _friends._

“What brought you to Baltimore today then, William?” He asks for the sake of spurring conversation and tugging Will from his brooding alcoholic silence (the man has already swallowed most of the contents of his glass in well under five minutes).

Will tips his head slightly. “Ok, I wasn’t actually in the neighborhood. I just—I needed to _talk_ and I figured that if you weren’t busy… I should have called, or just waited in the parking lot, I wasn’t thinking. Sorry, again.”

“Your earliness is no trouble, Will. I was not busy and it seems as if you were desperate for company.” When Will falls again into contemplative silence, Hannibal continues, “What made you so desperate, if I may ask?”

“Uh…I probably shouldn’t talk about it, but…” Fingers run through brown curls. The way the hair is slow to snap back to its former position implies that Will has not had time to shower since yesterday, and has experienced multiple episodes of cold sweat since. “What the hell. It’s this new case. Freddie Lounds hasn’t caught winds of it yet so you probably haven’t heard. There’s a man traveling north along the coast, stopping in major cities and…butchering alpha-omega pairs. Bonded ones.”

“Where has he struck thus far?” He hopes the professor will choose to answer the underlying question as well, being the number of victims.

“There was ah…one pair in Columbia, one in Raleigh and one yesterday in Richmond.”

“Six total people. In how many days?”

“Columbia was a week ago. He’s moving fast. And six people that we know of. The murder in Columbia… it didn’t look like that was the first one. Jack doesn’t agree with me but I…” Will trails off, gesturing toward himself in an altogether meaningless motion.

“What is the cause of death?”

“Varies. Blood loss for some. Others, stab wounds to the heart or lungs. Like I said, he’s butchering them. Cornering them in an alley and sort of… hacking at them until—oh _god_.” Will is pale in the face, haunted by something that likely has nothing to do with the way the killer kills—Will Graham has almost always seen worse.

“You are agitated by what you saw when you took this killer’s perspective.” Will nods faintly.

“He was—is _so angry._ All this rage is overflowing and becoming hatred. He doesn’t just want to kill these couples, he wants to _destroy_ everything that they are.” Will pauses and Hannibal takes note of the man’s rasping breath, enflamed neck and face. Will, in this moment, is channeling all the anger of the killer. “He hates them _so much._ ”

Will’s grip on the glass of wine is so intense, Hannibal thinks it may be moments from shattering in his hand. Gently, he leans forward and asks, “Are there any leads?”

It seems to work—Will’s hand relaxes, as does his body posture. He leans back and lists off the weak testimonies of the various witnesses, if they could even be termed as that. Apparently no one saw or heard anything but a faint shouting, not hectic enough to come running. The murders were at night, but they were still in public. That no one heard screaming or yelling is unfortunate.

“He’s an alpha,” Will says. “Jack says there’s no way to tell for sure, but I—I can _feel_ it. There’s no other reason to explain all of this aggressive energy he’s expelling.”

By pure chance, Will’s case comes at a time at which a compelling idea has been tugging at Hannibal’s mind for weeks. Consuming him during Will’s sessions and distracting him during those of others. It was born about a month prior, when Will came to him stinking of fearful sweat, hormones and alpha chemicals bearing high, following the culmination of the Angel-Maker case. Generally, alphas find the scent of other alphas to be repellent, but Will’s scent is…tolerable. More than tolerable, actually. Then, as now, Hannibal found himself imagining that scent, with tones of pine and burning firewood and smoky whiskey, altered to be irresistibly sweet. Intoxicating. So warm and potent that it would crawl under his skin, to a degree that he couldn’t scrub it off even if he wanted to.

An omega scent.

Alpha-alpha relationships are not unheard of (though they tend to be temporary, on the crossroads to a legitimate bonded relationship), and Hannibal could easily aim for such a relationship with Will. They could have violent sex, barely containing themselves from savaging the other as they battle for dominance and penetrative power. They could mark one another and play at the unreality of their capacity to bond with one another. They could fuck and shove at each other and all but poison themselves with alpha pheromones to the point of insanity. But that is not what Hannibal wants from the man. He wants Will Graham submissive to him, by inescapable nature. Quivering for his cock inside his hole and _begging for it_ while the fires of his heat tumble through his veins. At night, when he pleasures himself, he imagines a leaner, sweeter Will Graham, purring for Hannibal in his sleep. When he sits solitary at his dining room table he thinks of having a doting, swollen-stomached Will Graham seated across from him, sleepy from pregnancy. He imagines pressing morsels of meat to his lips, painting full lips with their juices and kissing them off so as to taste sugary, estrogen-laced pheromones beneath it. A taste and smell catered to Hannibal specifically.

Thinking on it now, he nearly swells in his trousers. Especially when Will stands to refill both of their glasses and must pass him to do so.

When Will regains his seat, he uncharacteristically allows his eyes to meet Hannibal’s as his back thumps against the chair and his head tips back in exhaustion. Hannibal wonders, not for the first time by far, what terrible twist of fate it was that Will be born an alpha rather than an omega. The man is lean, pretty-faced and jumpy, traits that seem out of place when paired with alpha intensity and smell. If Will were born an omega, he could bond with an alpha and find shelter in strong arms, hide away from the horrors of the world and of his mind in a safe home that smells of the solution of pheromones. He could sleep blanketed by his alpha and feel safe, without needing to leave his home and gaze back at his lit up house, like a boat on turbulent waves around him.

It is in that moment, with their two alpha scents mingling in the air between them, with Will’s neck unwittingly bared, with their eyes locked across the shaded room, that Hannibal realizes what he must do.

God, as is somewhat characteristic of such a vast and preoccupied being, has made a mistake in the classing of Will Graham. Will should have been born an omega—Hannibal’s perfect mate. Where god has failed, Hannibal will correct the error and perfect him. He will protect the man and breed him deep. Once the imprint of his teeth are safely sealed on Will’s flesh, he will ensure his eternal happiness. He, as an alpha, will make Will far happier than any omega could hope to do.

In the present, Will finally breaks eye contact with Hannibal. There’s a flush to his cheeks—whether it is resultant from the wine or from the heavy hang of the air, Hannibal is unsure. Most probably, it is a combination of the two.

“Are you afraid, Will?” Hannibal asks after nearly five minutes of solid silence. The question is general, meant to give the impression of asking about Will’s opinion of the case when in reality that is the last thing Hannibal wishes to hear about.

Will shakes his head, rubs his thumbs over his eyelids, takes a long drink, and stands to circle the room. “Not really. Maybe a little. I think I was just shocked earlier. It’s probably not as intense as I imagined it…I’ve been wrong before.”

 _Not often_ , Hannibal thinks, but doesn’t say. Will pauses beside the statue of the stag, as he often does (to Hannibal’s constant chagrin), and runs his fingers over an antler. Hannibal restrains himself from gently insinuating that it is a valuable collectors’ piece by a famed Scottish artist. Stands to move to his desk. He shifts his scalpel and pencil off his sketchbook and flips the cover open while Will seems occupied to glance over his half-finished drawing. When the man shifts he closes the book again and turns to look at him. Another wave of alpha pheromones comes over him, at which he must keep down the urge to lunge. He wonders if Will suffers similarly in his presence. He doubts it; Will seems constantly pained, but not at protruding smells. Hannibal suspects that his better sense of smell, his more aggressive nature, is indicative that he is the better alpha. Were they living in the stone ages, Will would have much to worry about. He is lucky than Hannibal wants him so desperately, and that he is willing to fathom means of getting him.

But time is running out—both he and Will are unmated alphas, and while he has the self control to hold out as long as necessary, Hannibal is unable to control Will. The thought of Will catching the scent of an omega on the street and blindly courting it… Infuriating.

Hannibal will not allow such a thing to occur. He will do what he must to ensure Will is his own. His bonded mate and little else.

* * *

Later that night, Hannibal takes up a few streams of research he began years earlier for the simple sake of his own academic interest. The change from alpha to omega is not a particularly difficult one. The opposite direction requires major body modification, supplemental energy reserves and muscle build-up that an alpha would be useless without. But for an alpha, especially one as lithe as William, to become an omega, it is only an issue of hormone resituating. A six week trial of injectable hormone replacement therapy should do the trick. A cocktail of estrogen, progestogens and a diluted variation of estradiol, Hannibal thinks, should do the trick. He could start off weak and ramp up to something more extreme so that Will is not frightened enough to immediately seek the help of another doctor. The hormonal changes will fix Will’s alpha temperaments and the issues of bonding (as well his attraction to omega pheromones). The rest, body change and the centering of his sexuality, will occur on its own in a domino affect. Omegas are simple solely in the respect that many of their distinctive components can be tied to their hormone levels.

He would not be fertile, not without a proper operation, but that could come later, after they were mated and Will’s newfound instincts make him _ache_ to be impregnated. Then, he would be easy to convince. That sort of operation is done only in the black market, but it is not unheard of and not generally arrested for. Will Graham will almost certainly be safe from arrest if the authorities believe the change has occurred naturally, as Hannibal will lead Will himself to believe. Furthermore, by that point he will be mated and, therefore, Hannibal’s sole responsibility.

He spends the remainder of the evening making calls and inquiries to past colleagues that owe him favors of silence. He can imagine what they must think of him, asking about alpha-to-omega sex change. A few ask one too many crude questions of Hannibal prior to giving up the information he requires and he reciprocates by moving their business cards to the box beside his recipes for a later date.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Something smooth and something sharp."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow. I am completely blown away by the amount of interest the story has received after only one chapter. All of the lovely comments here and messages on tumblr are much appreciated. 
> 
> A side note: I have done my best, done some research, but when it comes down to it I do not know science. What follows is that, as this is an AU with humans that have evolved differently to our own, the biology does not entirely match up. Omegaverses exist (at least in forms similar to this) solely in fandom. What that means is that I get to decide how this shit works. What I am leaving unsaid throughout this story is that science is just generally more evolved in this world. I admit it's a shortcut, but plot is much more important to me. That being said, if something isn't clear please let me know.
> 
> TL;DR- I choose how the science works, but I'm basically full of shit. So there's that.

The phone beeps as if it has been answered, but it is a long moment before Hannibal hears the characteristically exhausted, “ _Hello?_ ” through the line. There’s a faint scratching sound in the background, either the sound of dogs on wooden floors or, perhaps, Will himself dragging his feet as he walks. They are equally likely.

“Ah, Will, good morning. I wondered if you would allow me to make you dinner, subsequent to our session this evening?”

A week has gone and passed since their last session without Hannibal hearing more than a few words from Will. This is not surprising. While in the midst of a case Will tends to stretch himself thin. Hannibal takes no offense that Will does not think to call his doctor.

“… _Dinner?_ ” The surprise is expected. Hannibal has never before invited Will over for a meal in advance and the meals they share tend to be few and far between. Will tends to opt for a casual drink within the confines of Hannibal’s office, in the stead of a proper meal. Regardless, he agrees easily enough. “ _Yeah, ok. What’re we having?”_

“Something smooth and something sharp.” Will chuckles at Hannibal’s ambiguous description and does not prod—the anticipation seems to be appreciated. “I’ll see you this evening again.”

* * *

 

Will looks exhausted by the time he comes through the door to his office. _Sans_ preamble, he delves into a metaphoric description of what exactly the Pair-Killer he seeks could have for a motive.

“He’s like a child that has been denied something. He’s been sulking for so long without anyone caring that he’s resorted to a full out tantrum in its place. He feels cheated, like—“ Will cuts off, brain having run the course of the idea, like an old film. Hannibal can practically hear the clacking of the emptied spinning rings in the man’s head. Nothing left to project.

“Did you ever have a toy taken from you as a child, Will?” The question is, as are all his queries, less to do with an actual interest in the answer (professional or otherwise) and more to do with the strikingly gorgeous look Will gets when new ideas start forming about the killer—or more aptly himself. Will is, after all, internalizing all his assumptions about the killer. Creating a separate version of himself that is, to him, as real as this room. That mesmeric spark of new life behind Will’s eyes, like the cataclysmically fantastic birth of a universe, is an pleasure to behold.

“No,” Will says. “No, it’s not something that was _taken_ from him, it’s something that he never had, but wanted _desperately._ He’s wanted it since before he realized that he could not have it.”

“And does he believe this ‘tantrum’ will provide an answer to his desires?”

“It doesn’t _matter_ ,” Will snaps. There’s an angered sort of fire in his eyes, as if Hannibal is questioning his own motives, rather than those of the killer. After a few long moments of twisting and turning his jacket in his hands, he seems to realize this and actively controls the display of undesired affinity. “He’s out of options and he’s trying to qualm his anger in the only way he knows how.”

Striding across the room to regard a stack of old psychological texts, Hannibal considers this. Will, on the other hand, seems drained beyond repair and collapses onto the long therapy couch. By the look of his slouched body language, he is struggling with the urge to not lay himself across it completely.

“Children,” Hannibal begins. “Have a tendency to explicate their desires violently. If another child possesses a toy that they want, but cannot claim for themselves, they destroy it. One could argue that this is often the apex of a so-called tantrum, in a social setting.”

“One could _also_ argue that it’s an early sign of an antisocial personality disorder,” Will points out. “The idea that if I can’t have something, no one can.”

Hannibal ignores him and asks, “What is your killer breaking?”

The moment the final intonation of his question completes, Will’s eyes fall shut. The man has explained the sort of ‘pendulum’ that swings behind his eyes, transporting him back in time, placing him in the mind of another, but Hannibal has never seen it first hand. If anything, Will looks somewhat more relaxed than usual. A bit twitchy perhaps, but not as excessively as per usual. The professor seems as if he has let go his usual forms of self preservation, letting his empathy do all the work for him.

When Will opens his eyes, he says, “The bond. He’s killing bonded pairs because he’s jealous of their bond.” Will runs a hand over his face, scraping his hand through the stubble resultant from at least three days (maybe more) without bothering to shave. He laughs, a hollow sound that is forced more than anything. “I thought he wanted the omegas specifically, but—why didn’t he just…?— _fuck._ ”

Hannibal quirks an eyebrow and Will stands, already putting his coat back on.

“He’s a _beta_. He wants to be in a bonded pair, but he can’t. I have to tell Jack. This will speed up the DNA analysis. Can I meet you at your place?”

Hannibal worried this sudden revelation would force Will to discard their dinner plans; he is pleased that this is not the case.

“Of course. There are some final preparations I must make on our meal.”

* * *

 

An hour later, Hannibal does not bother to remove the apron knotted around his waist when he answers the door. Will glances down to look at it for a split moment and Hannibal does not miss the ever-so-slight creasing at the seams of his eyes. 

“I’m sorry I cut out on our session like that,” Will says. In his hands is a short brown paper bag.

“Not at all, good Will. We have sessions so that you may pull from them what you require. If it takes less than the allotted time, then all the better.” Hannibal stands aside to admit Will into his home.

“Wow. It smells great in here. I have to admit, I’ve been looking forward to this all day. Your cooking consistently tops my list of best meals.”

As he leads the way through his home to the kitchen, Hannibal silently commends his fellow alpha for not bowing to the temptation to poke fun at the alpha for taking part in such an omegan pastime, as some of their cruder counterparts would choose to do. Will is generally unconcerned with gender roles, but, then again, as an unbounded alpha, why would he need to? The idea brings the memory of why Hannibal has invited Will here this evening to the forefront of his mind—and an unbidden smile to his lips.

“What?” Will asks. That he has noticed indicates that Hannibal must aim to control himself more thoroughly.

Still, recovery is simple: “You seem much more relaxed than you did in my office.”

Will nods in agreement. “We really needed a break on this case. It’s not much but—but it is something.”

Silence falls comfortably on them as Hannibal circles the kitchen island to resume preparation of the meal.

“Enough work talk, though. I need a break.” He raises the brown paper bag and withdraws a bottle from it. “I thought about bringing wine again, but we both know that you have better taste. Also I think I cleared you out of this last time I was here.”

Will extends a bottle of Dalmore King Alexander III to Hannibal, who excepts it graciously. It is slightly younger than is characteristic for most Scottish whiskeys, and he recognizes the brand as originating from the Highlands. He can almost smell the spiced orange finish through the bottle.

“You really did not need to, Will,” Hannibal says. “Although, I must admit I have not had the chance to replace the bottle, so you would have unfortunately been without your preferred after dinner drink. The gift is perfect.” _As are you._ “Thank you.”

Will goes red as if it is the first compliment he has heard in weeks—and it very well may be.

“What are we having, then?” Will asks. Hannibal opens the oven and withdraws the meal with a flourish. Will grins. Says, a bit cockily, “Beef stew, Doctor Lecter?”

“Beef _bourguignon_ ,” Hannibal corrects.

“Is this the ‘something sharp’ or the ‘something smooth’?”

“The smooth. The sharp will be found in our accompaniment…” Hannibal opens up his wine drawer to withdraw the John Riddoch Cabernet Sauvignon he has been saving for this very meal. “It’s an astringent wine. Consumed solitarily, it will evoke a sort of ‘puckering’ sensation in the mouth, but with our meal it will tone down significantly.”

“Sounds good,” Will says, although Hannibal is sure that he understood none of what was just spoken. He takes the wine bottle in hand and turns it over, feigning interest with glazed over eyes. Hannibal also notices the man shifting a bit awkwardly—he likely has yet to eat today and his mouth is watering for the meal before them.

“The dining room, then.” Hannibal gestures toward the doorway before removing his apron and taking up the hot dish of sloshing stew. Will seats himself and Hannibal serves them both their food before uncorking the bottle of red wine. Will politely waits until Hannibal is seated across from him to take up his knife and fork and dig into the meal. He watches Will eat for a long moment, eyes sliding over the way his lips curl around the fork when he places a bit of the roasted flesh of a half-wit liquor-store owner that had the audacity to charge double for a derisory bottle of chardonnay. Will hums in pleasure hard enough around the food that there are temporarily tiny lines on both his lips where the prongs have made their indentation when he withdraws the fork. The man swallows slowly as he reaches for the glass of wine. He drinks quickly, too quickly for such an expensive bottle. He doesn’t pause to appreciate the aroma, nor the way the color swirls upon change in lighting, but the bobbing of his Adam’s apple more than appeases Hannibal’s sense of decorum. That and the way his eyelids flutter shut, lashes resting gently against the flushed curve of his cheeks when he pauses to take in the entirety of the meal.

Will opens his eyes and meets Hannibal’s eyes for a long moment before he comes back to himself. He splutters, puts down the wine glass and says, “Sorry, sorry,” as if he is unsure how much time has passed. He stabs at a softened pearl onion. “This is delicious. As always.”

“Thank you,” Hannibal says, dipping his head, and finally takes a bite of his own serving.

“You should teach me how to cook sometime,” Will says before catching himself and flushing an even deeper shade of red. Hannibal can barely contain his amusement. “I mean—I’m sure you’re crazy busy—and I’m terrible, I burn everything, but—I don’t know. It would be great if I could make something other than eggs and toast. And dog food.”

“Some say that if one can perfect eggs and toast, they have the potential to be a culinary master.” Hannibal smiles as he speaks to put Will at ease. “Although I’m not sure anyone has said such a thing about dog food.”

Will grins. “Then I guess they haven’t had my dog food.” They both laugh at that.

“What would you like to learn to make, William?” Will sighs and puts down his silverware to run fingers through his hair. When he leans back and takes a deep breath, chest expanding with the motion, he looks alarmingly alpha, more than Hannibal has ever seen on him. It almost makes him defensive, makes him want to get the rival out of his territory before he reminds himself that this is _Will_ and he won’t even be a threat for much longer.

“You _could_ teach me how to make this, but I doubt I have the skillset to attempt it, haha.”

“Nonsense. I took a few extra steps that may be difficult for you initially, but I am sure that you could manage a simplified version.” Hannibal is already running through the recipe in his mind, imagining standing behind Will so as to indicate to him how best to incorporate the tomato paste into the hot red wine. Perhaps it would be necessary to grip Will’s wrist so that it does not pour too quickly—of course, he would only flinch at the contact. Flecks of red would get everywhere, all over Will’s hand. Hannibal could clean it for him with his tongue.

He leans forward slightly, masterfully pressing intrusive thoughts away. “To be quite truthful with you, Will, the recipe’s success has more to do with the cut of meat acquired than anything else. I exerted very little gastronomic expertise, I must admit.”

Laughing again, Will says, “I seriously doubt that. Um. Maybe also, that pasta you made me for lunch a few weeks ago? I think it had zucchini in it or something…”

“A simple recipe. More than doable.”

They talk on, Will listing off meals he would like to learn how to make and Hannibal describing them briefly before promising to teach Will how to make them. It is only toward the end of the conversation that Hannibal realizes that Will remembers every meal he has ever shared with Hannibal just as clearly as Hannibal himself does. It makes his heart unexpectedly swell, makes him want and desire Will Graham even more than before, if such a thing were even possible.

They finish their meal soon after and Hannibal convinces Will to leave the dishes be so they can move their conversation to the living room. The bottle of wine is finished, so Hannibal brings out the new bottle of scotch and pours a glass for each of them.  
“I mean,” Will says, swirling the liquid around a bit before drinking. He apparently has a greater appreciation for scotch than wine. Perhaps he is not lost entirely. “I guess I don’t _really_ need to know how to cook. But I get take out so much, it’s probably terrible for my health. I just need to get by until I find an omega.”

Hannibal pauses mid-drink. He must raise the glass slightly higher and sniff at the liquid to mask the motion from Will.

“Do you wish to find a mate, Will?” In his mild shock, he finds himself slipping into his psychiatric tone of voice. Will opens his mouth and closes it. “I only inquire because I have never heard you mention taking an omega before.”

“Yeah, I mean, that’s what all alphas want, right?” The absence of rhetoric in the question causes Hannibal to think Will actually does not know what it is that ‘all alphas’ want and needs Hannibal to tell him.

“Will, I think you may be allowing your impression of this Pair-Killer to taint you more than is wise. Your desire for a bond could very well stem from that connection.”

“Yea, it might.” Will nods and amends, “It probably is, but that doesn’t exactly change anything, does it? I’m an alpha and alphas are supposed to take omega mates. Don’t you ever seen bonded pairs and think that they look—I don’t know, _happy?_ Because that’s—that’s what we’re meant to be doing. What the point of having the potential to mate and bond with someone and start a family if you don’t do anything with it? It’s like missing your other half.”

Will’s understanding of the hormonal chemistry behind forming a bond is obviously rudimentary at best, but he does seem to have grasped the larger picture. The bonding capacity of alphas and omegas are humanity’s evolutionary safety net to ensure the continuation of the race. The two components are essentially hard-wired to constantly search for a compatible mate. Alphas, to spread their seed, continue their line, have someone to take care of, and omegas, to be desired, to have babies, to be taken care of. That the beta gene has not died out yet, that they ever came to be in the first place, is a miracle by many counts. The Pair-Killer is, in some ways, justified in his anger. A useless mutation occurring millions of years ago managed to persist against the very laws of natural selection present in the genetic pool.

Hannibal stands to retrieve the bottle of scotch from the coffee table and pour himself another. Will finishes his second and extends his arm to silently ask for another.

In the interest of keeping Will unwary, Hannibal has waited for Will to consume a sizeable quantity of alcohol before pouring the crushed Rohypnol into his glass before handing it to him. A half a bottle of wine and two tumblers of scotch more than suffice. Furthermore, this talk of bonded pairs, specifically Will’s sudden desire to find an omega, makes Hannibal very impatient to set his plan in motion. The powder blends nicely into the caramel-colored liquid he serves the man—it is a pity to taint such a fine scotch, but it is entirely necessary.

Will drinks it down in one gulp. The man has an alcohol problem that will need to be dealt with in the near future, but in this case it is admittedly helpful.

“Don’t you want an omega, Doctor Lecter?” Will asks as Hannibal retakes his seat on the opposite couch.

“I suppose so. The right one though. It is not a decision to rush into. And as you have likely noticed I do not mind a mostly empty house.”

Will nods faintly. The drug is already taking effect, likely due to the assistance of the alcohol.

“Will, I do not think you are in condition well enough to drive back to Wolf Trap tonight. Shall I prepare the guest room for you?” Hannibal’s spare room is already prepared, of course, but he must not seem too keen.

“Yeah, that might be a good…a good idea…” Will’s speech is slurring now, becoming a bit sleepy. He is having trouble keeping his eyes open. “So weird…It usually takes way more alcohol to…Shouldn’t have had that last scotch I think…”

“It may be the stress,” Hannibal says gently, although Will likely is not listening. “It has been known to decrease one’s tolerance. Shall I show you to the room?”

“You sure that—it’s not a bother?”

“Of course not, Will. I would rest much easier with the knowledge that you are safe here in bed.”

Will nods and tries to stand, but the tranquilizer in the drug is taking affect more quickly than expected and he nearly goes tumbling forward into the coffee table. Hannibal manages to catch him, easily winding one arm around the man’s waist, without a protest from Will, and leveraging the other arm across his own shoulders to hold him close. He and Will have never been this near before and he cannot help but lean slightly farther in to silently inhale at his smell. It is less obtrusive, with Will like this, drunk and tired and unable to fight Hannibal for his territory even if he wanted to. 

“I’m not a—“ Will begins to stutter halfway up the stairs. “ _Ahm_ not—“

“You are not _what_ , William?”

“I’m not interested in alphas.” It sounds so much like denial, as if someone had accused him. _Or perhaps an over practiced response._

Hannibal raises an eyebrow, mildly concerned if he has been too obvious, if Will has picked up on his intentions. He almost wants to press him to discover the reason for his outburst, but Will surely will not remember this conversation in the morning. Even now, his body goes further lax, shifting to a dead weight as Hannibal tugs him over the threshold of the guest bedroom. The man flops onto the bed in a heap and Hannibal leaves him as is for when he returns with the chosen injection.

He withdraws the first of six jars retrieved from a hormone regulation facility. He had multiple discussions with the doctors and pharmacologists working there to determine the exact effect it would have. The percentage of chemicals is exact and Hannibal is utilizing a special syringe size with extra suction to ensure every drop gets into Will’s system.  
Upon return to the guest bedroom, he allows himself to pause and drag his eyes across the outline of Will’s unconscious form. Admittedly allowing his fingers to linger, he turns Will off his stomach and onto his back to reach the correct vein in the man’s neck. There is a wet spot of saliva on the duvet left behind by Will’s agape mouth; the space where he previously laid is hot to the touch. Thoughtfully, he presses his fingers to both.

The stubble of Will’s beard descends, equally unshaven, to his neck. Hannibal must pinch at the rough flesh to make the correct vein prominent enough to administer the hormones. Hannibal thinks that, when Will is his, he will ensure the man is clean-shaven and smooth always, as the point of the syringe pricks and enters. _Perhaps I will do the honors myself._ The thought of dragging a razor across Will’s quivering flesh is not unappreciated.

As the contents of the syringe empty into Will’s bloodstream, the man tenses, fingers curling into pained fists. He will not rouse, but the motion surprises Hannibal. Discomfort does not leave his posture even as the needle empties, creating a knot of worry in Hannibal’s brow. His fingers skim across Will’s clothed arm—the sensation of rough flannel beneath his fingertips is cringe-worthy—working the tightened muscles of his hands until they loosen.

Fingers weaving easily together, Hannibal gives in to the desire to squeeze at the grip. It is with no small amount of surprise that he feels Will unconsciously squeeze back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [The Bottle of Scotch in Question](http://www.masterofmalt.com/whiskies/dalmore-king-alexander-iii-whisky/)
> 
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> Look at it and try to tell me it isn't the official scotch of this dumb show.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He thinks of wetness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One of the interesting things about Omegaverse is how sexually charged all the relationships have to be. Humans are just more primal, and the resulting culture is ridiculously sex obsessed, across the board. Even in alpha-alpha relationships, in which neither side has any issue with actual sex, they have to view one another as potentially the person that is going to stop them from getting some. /end irrelevant tangent

The next morning, Will comes stumbling down the stairs with bed-flattened hair and (uncharacteristically) no bags under his eyes. It is nearly noon on a Friday and he is most certainly late. Hannibal expects the alpha to turn down his offer of a fresh breakfast and, very much prepared, hands him a Tupperware of finger foods that he can eat in the car.

“Jack called and left a message,” Will says as he sips quickly at the glass of orange juice the doctor has placed in his hand. “The Pair-Killer got two more last night. In Georgetown.”

“Has anything changed?”

“Apparently there’s some DNA left behind on the scene—much cleaner than anything on the others. I don’t think it matters, I can’t see this guy being in any databases, but it’ll at least confirm his beta status.”

Hannibal nods, watching Will scurry about the kitchen picking up his jacket and his briefcase with a level look. Will, as if suddenly remembering himself, abruptly stops moving to turn directly toward Hannibal.

“Thank you for dinner. And letting me sleep in your guest bedroom.” His eyebrows lower a bit in thought—Hannibal knows that he is thinking on the fact that he cannot remember actually being put to bed. “Sorry I got so drunk.”

“It was no trouble. If anything, I owe you thanks for breaking in that mattress. It has only been used a handful of times; it must be horribly uncomfortable.”

“It was great. I slept like a baby. Kind of weird for me.” The tension in Will’s face goes out again as he forces himself to meet Hannibal’s eyes. He lowers his chin slightly, to look up at Hannibal with an expression that can be described only as _sweet._ “Thanks again. For dinner and for… breakfast.”

He gestures toward the plastic box in his hand as he turns to let himself out, leaving Hannibal alone in his kitchen to ponder whether or not it is too early for the hormones to be having an affect. The dose was too low, the amount of time since administration too small, but the telltale submissive exhibiting of his neck as he thanked Hannibal a second time, classic omega behavior, begs to differ.

* * *

Hannibal does not hear from Will for some days, nor does he expect to. He spends the time further researching hormone replacement therapy and considering the various ways each will show itself in Will’s behavior. In addition to a personal interest in the alpha shifting to an omega status, Hannibal cannot help but have a professional desire to witness firsthand the effects. From an experimental perspective, he has questions on if there will be any (or many) negative side effects, if the recipient will simultaneously come to terms with the change and forgo any emotional struggle. He wonders if the heat of a former alpha will have all the pungent veracity of a born omega. It must be different, he thinks, but the images his mind conjures up for him, in the minutes between clients, or the hours of dull speculation about the possibility of an alpha client’s mate cheating, are more than satisfactory.

He thinks of wetness. He thinks of Will’s sweetened scent pouring down his thighs from his gorgeous puckered hole. He thinks of Will whining _so intensely_ for something that he’s never even thought to want before. He thinks of giving in to Will’s demands, plunging his cock between the gorgeous mounds of the man’s ass. He thinks of sinking his teeth into heated flesh, at Will’s shoulder, just below where the injections must go in, and marking the man as _his omega._

He also thinks of how he will manage to administer the rest of the vials of hormones. He could simply tell Will that the injection is something intended to help with stress, weight-loss, or sleep deprivation. Will would not give a second thought to a doctor-administered drug-based solution to his problems—as is evidenced by his constant inhaling of aspirin, no doubt well over the recommended amount. But once the indicators become obvious to Will himself, once Hannibal must gently disclose his changing status, he will undoubtedly suspect an injection occurring so early in the onset of symptoms. And Hannibal cannot allow Will to suspect him in the slightest.

In the end, it is simpler than he expects to have Will in a trusting position once more.

Will does not so much as call before their next scheduled appointment. He shows up exactly on time and looks very much as if he would rather be anywhere else.

“How are you?” Hannibal asks, in hope he will uncover a remarkable side effect.

“Not great. The Pair-Killer has gotten two more couples and we’ve got _nothing._ Fucking nothing.” Will seems to have entirely abandoned his personal (and legal) rule of not discussing specifics of his cases with Hannibal. Perhaps the fact is indicative of the level of trust they have reached. “I haven’t gotten more than an hour of sleep in well over a week. And this—this _beta_ just keeps getting more violent. More _angry._ ”

Hannibal practically _feels_ the tension radiating off of Will, full of unspent rage. The hormones seem to be almost entirely invisible to Will, as expected, but Hannibal undergoes a few simple tests.

First, he steps in close to Will and takes his jacket—which he is again wringing and twisting in his hands—firmly from his grip, letting it rest gently on a nearby therapy chair. Will instantly tenses, glancing up from slightly lowered eyelids to stare at Hannibal. The anger falls away instantly, giving way to something meeker and more anxious. It strikes Hannibal that he must be wary of not scaring Will enough to make him scamper away.

Next, he grips Will’s wrist firmly to tug him just a tad closer. The motion is so casual, masked with a sense of nonchalance, that Will could not consciously notice it—would not think to wonder at that way Hannibal fingers at the omega pressure point currently being compressed at his wrist. He glances away from Will to his watch, feigning taking his pulse. As he feels Will’s blood flutter beneath his forefinger, he admires the previously unnoticed difference in their heights.

Eventually, he releases Will’s hand and tells himself that the flush in his cheeks must be imagined. Will’s reaction is noticeably shifted from what that would be of a classic alpha (although he has no knowledge of what the former Will would have done to act as a control variable), but it is not particularly in the direction of an omega. If anything, it seems more similar to that of a beta. This is perhaps resultant of Will’s case, of his elongated empathy with the killer.

_The higher dose this week,_ Hannibal silently decides.

“If you are tired, perhaps you should sleep for a while on either of the couches.” He gestures to them both. “I could retrieve a blanket and a more comfortable pillow, if you would be more comfortable.”

Will laughs, a bit of the nervous energy going out of him. “Haven’t I slept on enough of your furniture yet?”

“I would imagine so, yet you keep arriving thoroughly exhausted.” Hannibal smiles to put Will further at ease before nodding firmly. “Please sleep, Will. We can discuss your case afterward, once you have acquired a clearer head.”

“Yeah,” Will says. He looks longingly at the longer blue couch behind Hannibal’s desk for a moment. “Yeah, ok. Don’t bother with the blanket and pillow, though. I’ll be out like a light anyways and my coat will do just fine.”

Hannibal accedes the point and strides to the doorway to dim the lights a bit.

“Promise you’ll wake me up if I start snoring?”

“I would not dare. Your sleep is precious.” Will grunts in mock displeasure.

That Will feels comfortable enough to sleep in the den of a rival alpha indicates the presence of the drugs more than anything, Hannibal decides. A week ago, Will only slept in Hannibal’s home after being forcibly knocked unconscious. This week, he is laying down to sleep in the presence of a very much awake alpha.

Hannibal listens, with his back turned, to the sound of Will taking up his jacket from the chair Hannibal placed it on and draping himself across the couch. He returns to his desk and switches on his iPad to search out a recommended article to him regarding Encephalitis.

“You know…” Will says. “Your office could do with a bit of a makeover. I know its your space and it should represent you, but I bet your patients would feel far more at ease if you had, say, some squishy pillows lying around. Maybe a bean bag chair.”

Hannibal knows Will is joking, a last-ditch effort to avoid falling asleep. He does not give into the jab. He hums lightly and says, “Perhaps, although I have purchased multiple books describing statistically what psychiatric patients should be surrounded by during sessions.”

“You’ll have to lend me those...books…” Will’s speech pattern is laced with exhaustion now.

“I shall,” Hannibal responds, not bothering to stifle his grin.

As expected, Will falls to sleep almost instantly, and Hannibal does hear the faintest of breathing coming from the corner. This time, a tranquilizer does not need to be used. Will may not sleep particularly deeply, but the needle is thin and Will will barely notice the injection so long as Hannibal is careful and quiet.

He quietly leaves his office to find the box of vials from his car. He sets up the syringe in the chilly parking lot as well—the less evidence should Will rouse, the better. When he returns, Will is curled into his coat, mouth hanging open, curls already matting down. He doesn’t appear to be having a nightmare, although it is likely only a matter of time. Before approaching Will’s sleeping form, he retrieves a blanket from the loft.

With the blanket draped across Will’s lower half, he gently skims his fingers down the curve of Will’s neck. His eyelashes twitch against the swell of his cheeks, a gorgeous, rosy sight. Will is an Adonis, at least to Hannibal’s eyes. That he hides it behind unkempt facial hair and tattered clothing is a tragedy. When Will is slim, is more curved with the lack of bulky alpha muscle, Hannibal will ensure he is well-dressed always.

It is far simpler to find the correct vein the second time, Hannibal finds. It takes only moments to press the syringe inside and begin to empty the contents. The tiny prick from last time has not quite healed, and aids in guiding his steady hand.

Will stirs only as Hannibal pulls the needle away, but he is already on the other side of the room, tucking the syringe away in a cabinet, when his eyes open fully.

“H-Hannibal?” Will speaks his name with such nervousness; it tugs unbidden at his heartstrings. He turns just in time to see Will gripping panicky at the blanket.

“Apologies, William. I did not mean to rouse you, but you seemed a bit chilled.”

“N-no, no it’s…it’s fine…” He drifts off again almost immediately, tugging the blanket tighter around his body and curling deeper into himself. Hannibal looks on, again allowing himself to smile.

* * *

When Will wakes, he drifts. It is a sharp contrast to Hannibal’s understanding of the way the man wakes—with a scream, drenched to the bone in a cocktail of cold sweat. But now, his eyes are glazed, his lips hang slightly open as he takes in slow breaths, very similar to those of when he slept.

Hannibal sees all of this carefully from the leather therapy chair with the clearest view of the blue couch, watching as Will slowly comes to a realization of where he is and how he came to be here. The moment Will turns to look for Hannibal, he moves his line of sight back to his iPad. He feels Will’s eyes on him for a long time, well over a minute, before he straightens up and leans back against the couch. Looking upon Will again, Hannibal sees that he has wrapped the blanket tightly around his shoulders and his torso.

“Was your sleep beneficial?”

As he considers Hannibal’s question, Will stretches—rolls his shoulders and elongates his necks. “You could say that.”

Hannibal quirks an eyebrow in question, to which Will responds by shaking his head to free his mind of the remaining cobwebs from his unconsciousness. A pity, really.

“I had a dream. About the Pair-Killer. I was him.”

“One of the past victim or a new set?” Hannibal asks, because there is little doubt of what Will did as the killer, in his dream. He leans forward, letting his stance shift to that of an esteemed psychiatrist.

“Neither. It’s a pair he killed before. Probably his first. We haven’t found it yet because its so different from the ones that succeeded it.”

“So he is unfortunately learning from his mistakes?”

Will laughs—a short, barking sort of sound that is not his own. “More like choosing to make them. He did such a good job on the first couple he killed that no one cared enough to notice.”

“How do those killings, the ones you dreamt of, differ from those you have seen first hand?”

Will lists the facts off on his fingers. “They were less hectic, it was in a less public place, he was controlling himself, he thought to hide the bodies…” The four fingers of his right hand remain pointing towards the ceiling as Will intensely tries to recall the other differences. Finally he puts them down and looks straight at Hannibal. “The killing I dreamt of was violent, but it wasn’t violent enough. The slices of blade in flesh were fewer, but excessively deep. He was holding back because he was scared and when it was over, after he watched his victims die too quickly for him to feel the closure he needed, after he buried them and buried the fact that he hated them… He lamented his choice like one laments a deceased mate. He didn’t feel the resolution he so desperately needed, so he knew the only option was to let himself go entirely.”

“It can be difficult to let oneself go, even if it is so obviously what needs to be done. Something must have set him off, to make him take the first step, no?”

Will nods. “He broke. Whatever it was that made him _hate_ the ability of alphas and omegas to bond with one another, it was more potent than ever on this day. Then he saw this bonded pair all alone—they were probably really, _really_ in love, blatantly in love—and he just _shattered._ ”

“Perhaps he was in love. Or a semblance of the sentiment.” Hannibal, for the most part, does not buy into the notion, as many of his colleagues do, that betas possess the same capacity of love as an alpha does toward an omega. Than again, Hannibal has every intention of making Will love him once they are bonded—something he did not believe was possible for alpha-alpha pairs. The world is a complex place, and humanity’s ability to mark it only makes it more so.

Will nods in acknowledgment of the theory that Hannibal has left unspoken. “He’s in love with the idea of bonding, more than anything. There may have been someone that he— _oh._ ”

“Have you thought of something vital?”

“He wished he was an alpha because he wanted an omega. There must have been an omega that he knew, from before he was young and he realized he could never have what he wanted.”

Will turns to stare towards the drape-covered window and Hannibal regards the spot on his neck where the syringe has now entered twice. He cannot see the miniscule mark from here, but he knows where it is.

He wonders if, were the medical technology to turn Will not available, if he would have moved down the path of this Pair-Killer. His methods would have been far subtler, yes, resultant of his preexisting experience in masterfully ending another’s life, but he could easily see himself taking out his frustrations of not being able to have Will as he wants him on others _like_ William.

Better than taking them out on Will himself.

They sit in silence for a while longer. As Will thinks of new ideas he voices them to Hannibal, never asking for a response as much as he is an ear. When Will stands to leave, giving the typical but unnecessary excuse that he should leave Jack a voicemail (it’s too late for him to still be awake now)

“Thank you, that blue couch is surprisingly comfortable. I haven’t slept that deeply in weeks. Just like when I passed out at your place last week. There’s something about your furniture.”

_Or my scent._

Will hands the blanket, still draping over his arms and shoulders like an oversized scarf, back to Hannibal and says, “I’m sorry for keeping you here so late,” before striding past and disappearing through the door.

Once Will is gone, Hannibal lifts the blanket to his nose, just as Will had. He cannot smell his own pheromones over the perfume of Will’s fevered sweetness.

The hormones are working.

The knowledge makes his cock swell against his control. He feels composure slip away, in the absence of any prying eyes. He grinds his teeth, arches his spine and crouches along the length of the blue couch, burying his nose into the decorative satin pillow where Will’s head previously lay. He growls at the scent, simultaneously emboldened and riled by the sweetened alpha aroma.

Alpha it may be, it is still _Will_ , still sharp and familiar and incredibly arousing in a way that is half due to what the man _is_ and half to what he is _becoming._

While one hand dips beneath the pillow to press the fabric tighter against his nostrils, the other delves into his trousers to wrap his fingers around himself. He drags his fingers up himself slowly, teasing the spots he knows are most sensitive. When his erection is full, he parts the zipper and slides himself out. Knowing how close he already is, he does not bother to undress himself any further.

“ _William_ ,” he growls out. On the inside of his eyelids, he sees the curved veins of Will’s neck, the way the flesh strains when he swallows nervously on nothing, jaw clenched. He sees the vibrations of his Adam’s apple when he moans around food, or an idea, and imagines him moaning instead in carnal pleasure.

_Hannibal, Hannibal,_ Will hisses in his mind. Over and over again, voice becoming breathier as Hannibal imagines himself buried deep between his thighs. William will be wet around him, if he has his way. He will be hot and sweet and perfect for Hannibal, moaning beautifully for everything he can give.

When Hannibal cums, he drenches his fingers as well the blanket he has unthinkingly laid down upon, thrust absently against the soft fabric. He sees white and bites down on the pillow, imagining it to be Will’s flesh. _Wishing_ for the vibrant splash of blood across his that would result if it were. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He thinks this dish will stand best alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (How about that trailer??)
> 
> Warning for sexist overtones in this chapter. Please recognize that these do not reflect my own opinions, it's just fiction. I would be perfectly happy to discuss my characterizations on my tumblr. Enjoy~

The Chesapeake region receives rain for the next three straight days. Hannibal receives a series of text message updates from Will, describing how the Pair-Killer butchered another pair, making the number of victims rise into the double digits (possibly higher, according to Will). Jack is apparently unmanageably angry, driven, on one part, by the media, questioning what the FBI is doing about this _serious_ issue, and, on another, by his own morality. As Hannibal is well aware, Agent Jack Crawford is constantly under the impression that he himself exists as the sole protector of the innocent against the insane and deranged. He becomes even worse, apparently, when the crime scene, in Annapolis, Maryland this time, is destroyed by the rains almost the moment authorities arrive on the scene. There is no new evidence retrievable from the scene, and even Will finds the well of his mind appallingly dry.

Unlike the previous week, Hannibal sees Will multiple times. He hypothesizes that the hormones have made Will unconsciously seek out the most comforting alpha in his life. There is, technically speaking, no way to test this, but Hannibal is confident in his belief. Especially when Will, after arriving at his home one evening, three nights after the delivering of the second dose of hormones, opts to sit beside Hannibal on the couch in his living room rather than in his favored armchair. Hannibal appreciates it—both consciously and unconsciously.

Will’s scent is now noticeably less offensive to his alpha senses; Hannibal suspects the same is true on Will’s part. While the man may not have yet acquired the full sweet _intoxication_ of an omega, he is decidedly no longer alpha—and it would be crass to compare the precious redolence to beta stench. Will is perfectly unique.

“Jack’s been keeping me up at night,” Will says. He clears his throat and clarifies, “More than usual. He’s been sending me away from crime scenes and the office with _homework._ ”

Will scoffs, obviously appalled at the idea of being treated, so blatantly, like a child. Hannibal wonders if Jack, as an alpha, has unconsciously taken the initiative to be more commandeering in regards to Will. Such a thing is common in relations between alphas and betas, most certainly between alphas and working omegas, but less so between alphas and fellow alphas.

“What does he require of you, generally?”

“Y’know, this and that.” Will is not yet inebriated and Hannibal has no plans to make him so this evening, but the comfort of scotch has decisively settled over his pattern of speech. “Last night it was old case files from the PD in Colombia. Because I told Jack I didn’t think that was his first kill. _Bullshit_ , I wanted to say. There’s no way he’s from Colombia. He was on the run after his first bonded pair—not for long—but long enough to get to another _city._ ”

Will sighs, finishes his drink and sets his tumbler down on the table. He does not ask for more and Hannibal does not immediately pour it for him. He’d like to keep Will sober and conversational for as long as possible this evening.

“But Jack said we didn’t have any other leads, so I may as well do _something._ ”

“I think it would be more beneficial for both the case and your health for you to sleep during the hours of night,” Hannibal finally cuts in.

Will chuckles and looks straight at him. He isn’t quite beaming, but it is in that direction. A tiredly fond sort of look that Hannibal thinks must be reserved for only himself.

“If I thought _that_ would make a difference, I would toss Jack’s case files in the dumpster in a heartbeat.” He leans forward to fiddle with his tumbler, watching the crystal shine fractural rainbows onto the coffee table, before giving himself a half portion. “I haven’t gotten more than two hours of sleep a night since this case started.”

Hannibal raises an eyebrow. “I am sure you already know, but as your doctor I must warn you that that is extremely detrimental to your health, Will. Perhaps I should prescribe you some sleeping medication?”

“By all means. I doubt it’ll do much good, but what the hell? I bet it beats aspirin drowned in scotch.”

* * *

 

Hannibal receives so many samples for various sorts of mentality-related disorders on a weekly basis that it is almost too easy for him to find a new label to put over the serum vial. Then again, he is not in this for the enjoyment of the means, but the simple pleasure that the ends will bring.

He arrives, unannounced, on Will’s doorstep at seven o’clock in the evening on the day that the third hormone supplement must be administered. Will answers the door, already dressed in an old t-shirt and a pair of worn boxers—his typical sleepwear. When he is Hannibal’s, he will wear silks and satins, or else nothing.

The haunted, exhausted look on his face tells Hannibal everything he needs to know: the case remains at a standstill, Jack Crawford is constantly looking over Will’s shoulder, he likely has not soundly slept since he napped in the office more than a week ago (and even then he had a nightmare). He rubs at his eyelids when he sees Hannibal, but when he looks up again he seems a bit lighter, perhaps due to the presence of a friend.

“Good evening, William.”

“Dr. Lecter. I wasn’t…um expecting you…?” Unsure on the social protocol, Will stands aside to let him in.

“I brought you what you requested—a little something to help you sleep. And some dinner.”

Will’s mouth hangs open for a moment. “Oh, great. But I thought—I was expecting a prescription. I could have picked it up from the drug store myself.”

“This is one of the many perks of being an esteemed medical professional. Pharmaceutical agents give a multitude of samples free of charge. While they may indicate their desire they be given to patients likely to ask for a full prescription, there are no measures preventing me from giving them to friends.”

“Free drugs,” Will says, quirking the corners of his mouth up in his signature smile.

 _If you will._ With some difficulty, Hannibal manages to keep the smirk from his face. “An injection, with the best effect after a meal. May we move to your kitchen?”

Will inclines his head. “Smells good.” Indeed, the scent of onion, of bay leaf and freshly minced garlic, is wafting through the sealed thermos in Hannibal’s hand. He carries nothing else, not his usual tote bag of various ingredients and complementary dishes. He thinks this dish will stand best alone.

“You didn’t bring wine, for once?” Will grins at him.

“I admit I was depending on your affinity for scotch. You have a bottle lying around, I’m sure?”

“ _Bottles_ ,” Will corrects, opening the creaking doors of his liquor cabinet. He picks one up, squeezing it between his thumb and index finger before slinging it into two tumblers. Hannibal finally opens the thermos and pours a generous amount into each bowl.

Will pauses, inhaling deeply before groaning. The sound is low in his throat and is so ripe with carnal sexuality that Hannibal must restrain his own sound of appreciation.

“You made me gumbo?” Will asks, disbelieving. “Traditional Creole gumbo?”

“I thought it may evoke a feeling of nostalgia. I assume this was a regular meal, growing up in Louisiana?”

“Damn right,” he grunts in response. He immediately starts digging in, taking two large bites before Hannibal has even taken a seat. “ _God_ , it tastes just like Auntie Sarah’s—“

“Your father’s sister?”

“Nah.” Will shakes his head. He’s smiling, at the smell, at the taste, at the memories. “Not my mom’s either. She wasn’t my biological aunt, just my neighbor. She was one of those ladies that invited all the neighborhood kids around for meals and had them all call her ‘Auntie’.”

Will scoops another few bites into his mouth and Hannibal takes his first. It came out well, but the over-stewed, unreasonably spiced soup is not up to his personal standards. The fault is hardly his own—the recipe lacks contrasting flavors, complementary sensations. Should he attempt it again, he will most certainly alter the recipe so that it draws more from its French roots than its penurious flare.

“She was an omega, but infertile. Her alpha left her with practically nothing after their third attempt. He had money, he could have just taken a second but… in the south, it’s humiliating to have an infertile omega.”

Hannibal hums. “It seems to me that the dishonor of abandoning a mate should outbalance such a notion.”

Will laughs, a bit sadly. “You would think. I’m glad I’m out of there.”

“Then, this woman, I assume she adopted the neighborhood children as sort of surrogate children?”

“Yeah. Me especially, to be honest. What with my dad always working long hours. I spent most of the time hanging out in her apartment, watching dumb soaps with her.”

“What happened to her?”

Will shrugs. “You know. My dad and I moved away. Neither of us really had the means to stay in touch.”

Will leans back, leaving his gumbo be for a while. Hannibal quietly observes the gears turning in Will’s head, as his complexion grows darker and darker, a dim mood taking hold of his entire being.

“Do you ever feel bad for them?” Will finally asks. Hannibal quirks an eyebrow and Will clarifies, “Omegas, I mean. Do you ever feel sorry for them?”

Hannibal considers, although he cannot say that he was not expecting such a conversation. As Will’s hormones stray further across the gender spectrum, as he becomes more submissive, it is normal that he would consider the various meanings of it. A biologically induced existential crisis.

“Such a question requires one to first consider who is to blame for whatever plagues omegas as a whole. The most obvious answer being their alpha mates. Do you feel guilty?”

Will makes a face, scrunching his eyebrows together. He shakes his head, but in a way that makes Hannibal think he isn’t quite confident in his answer. “It’s not like _I’ve_ ever done anything to an omega. And I wouldn’t.”

“One could argue that neutrality is just as terrible as activism, in a case such as this.”

“Would you argue that, Dr. Lecter?”

Hannibal shrugs noncommittally. He is currently in the same position as Will. He has never even touched an omega, barely spoken to one except in the context of him as a doctor. But once Will is changed, once they are mated, who is to say what Hannibal will do? He is not naïve enough to vow to himself that he would not harm a hair on Will’s precious head.

He is not a good man. He will surely ache to leave bruises and leaking, bleeding bites all over Will’s skin, marking him as _his._ Perhaps he will even forbid Will from working, from leaving the house unless accompanied by Hannibal himself. Perhaps he will need to beat Will’s disobedience, swayed by remaining alpha hormones, out of him.

“Not necessarily,” he finally answers. “Our society is built on an unfair hierarchy, but it is not without assets. While often mistreated, omegas generally have loving mates, a safe home to raise a family in. It is natural that some dependents slip through the cracks.”

Will doesn’t make any motion to show that he understands what Hannibal is saying, but he knows the words are sinking in.

“I’ve been thinking.” Will’s voice quivers a little.

“On what, exactly?”

“Lately, I’ve been feeling so detached and I—I can barely take care of myself, y’know? And lately it’s gotten so much worse, and I realized…Well, how am I supposed to take care of an omega if I can’t even take care of _myself?_ ”

Hannibal thinks he knows where this is going, but he is interested in the various connections and streams of consciousness that Will went through to come to it. So he plays dumb.

“I am afraid I do not quite understand, William.” To make Will simultaneously more comfortable and more desperate, Hannibal assumes his therapy stance: he leans forward, he crosses his legs, he folds his hands on his lap. He ignores his food. “Is this about the case?”

“No, _no_ —OK, kind of, but… I don’t know? All these murders are about this beta wanting to take an omega, wanting a pair bond, and I want a pair bond, _I do_ , but I keep thinking that I don’t…deserve one. That to take a mate would be _utterly_ _irresponsible_.”

Remaining entirely silent, Hannibal waits for Will to come to the end point of this thought.  
“I think something’s…wrong with me.” Will ducks his head, wipes at his eyes with his sleeve and further closes in on himself, as if that will stop Hannibal from noticing. When he speaks again, his voice is a whisper and it is the most beautiful thing Hannibal has ever heard. “I don’t feel… like I’m a real alpha anymore.”

Hannibal steels himself. Does not allow himself to smile, because even though Will is looking anywhere but his face, he is an empath. He will sense Hannibal’s glee in full if he allows it to show even in the slightest. Though he knows precisely why Will feels this way, he gives the most plausible answer to such a statement.

“I would not worry too much, Will. You have become confused by cases before and this particular one has gone on for an inordinate amount of time. It is more than likely that you are simply internalizing the killer’s beta characteristics.”

“Yeah,” Will says, but Hannibal knows what he’s thinking—that it isn’t a _beta_ he feels like _._ But the poor man will keep the truth down, hidden for as long as possible, until it has to come out. And Hannibal will be the first person to hear of it. Until then, Will feigns belief. Rolls his shoulders back and forces his grimace into a faint smile that isn’t fooling anyone—least of all Hannibal.

“Yeah, you’re probably right. I just…I need to get through this case. Then everything will go back to normal.”

“And for now, I recommend a long night of sleep. Doctor’s orders.” It is barely eight, but Will seems almost jovial at the concept of a full night of uninterrupted sleep. “Shall we try this out, then, Will?”

Will nods. Already in his night clothes, there is no obtrusive collar in the way for Hannibal to maneuver away as he presses the syringe into the same spot as the week before (and the week before that). If Will is aware that Hannibal has just injected the ‘drug’ into a pheromone point, he is unperturbed by it. The drug will not make the poor man sleep, but Hannibal hopes it will at least have a placebo effect. If it does not, Hannibal will simply recommend another drug.

“This should last for a few days, but it can vary. Please make sure to keep me updated on your sleep patterns.”

Afterwards, Will takes a tiny step back and looks Hannibal straight in the face for the first time since their meal began.

“Thank you,” he says, referring to the food, the drug that will hardly do what Will needs it to, and the unplanned psychological evaluation. The words sound very much like something else.

 _I need you._  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> durch-artist (on tumblr) has drawn a scene from this chapter here: http://durch-artist.tumblr.com/post/77485939537/alter-by-luvkurai-x-i-drew-this-particular


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "What happened, Will?" He asks. "Tell me."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many, many apologies for this taking so long. I sincerely hope you all think it was worth the wait ^_^

Two days later, an article appears at the top of the Tattle Crime feed. It explicates the details of the Pair-Killer’s most recent murders—information that Will has not yet had the opportunity to disclose to him in person, for once. The act took place in Hartford, three states away from the last. More vicious, more torturing. According to Miss Lounds, the victims were kept alive for hours and hours before they finally died from a mixture of shock and blood loss. 

“ _He had been slowing down for the last few weeks_ ,” Will says over the phone, when he calls to cancel their appointment later. It’s an hour before he was expected, well after the twenty-four hour cancellation policy, but Hannibal has long grown accustomed to Will disregarding that particular rule entirely. “ _Smaller distances between cities. Fewer kills. I thought he was getting bored.”_

In the background, Hannibal hears Jack illegibly bark orders at someone. He isn’t speaking to Will, but Hannibal can still sense the poor man flinching through the phone line. When he speaks again, it is a bit quicker, more desperate.

“ _B-but he wasn’t. This was—it was so much worse. And I think—Jack doesn’t believe me—but I think he’s going back down south. To wherever he came from. I convinced Jack to let me spend a couple days down there, driving between cities to see what I can find.”_

“Well, I sincerely hope it will be enough. I wish you luck.”

Will mumbles a quick _thanks_ and hangs up without saying goodbye. It is five days until Hannibal will need to administer the next dose of hormones. Will is now beyond the halfway point and Hannibal truly wishes the case would finish soon. Hannibal needs to begin his courting.

* * *

 

The three days pass without another word from Will. Hannibal sees his other patients and makes plans for when Will moves in with him. He looks for a larger bed to replace his own. A mated Will is more likely to want to sleep bracketed by Hannibal, therefore taking up very little space of his own, but he expects the thought of the act to speak louder than the usefulness of it. 

He also seeks out various sex-change doctors and therapists that would be more able to help Will adapt to his new life than Hannibal himself.

He finds a female omega doctor (a rarity in herself) with shop set up in DC. At more than ten successful surgeries, she is the most accomplished member of her field. While only half of the patients have successfully conceived (and only a few of them carried to term), all of their health records are more on par with a normal, healthy omega. However, Hannibal must also take into account the fact that all of her omega patients made the switch naturally—without a second party manipulating their bodies and hormone levels via pharmaceuticals. It will be interesting to see how Will’s health will vary from the others.

He is on the phone with her, under a pseudonym, of course, when Will storms into his office without knocking.

“Ah—I apologize, Dr. Kline. I will need to call you back.”

_“That is perfectly fine, Mr. Yves. Would you like my personal number to contact me directly?”_

Hannibal takes down the number and hangs up, unnecessarily curt. In any case, he won’t be speaking to her again using that identity.

“William,” Hannibal says in greeting. “You could have called.”

Will nods, as if absent, before his expression crumbles and he falls back down to earth.

“I’m sorry. I’m _sorry. Fuck_ , I always do this, I—“

Hannibal stands, leads Will by his forearm over to a leather therapy chair and folds him into it. He tries to step back, but Will, with shaking fingers, grips the sleeve of his suit to keep him close. Keeping the darker aspects of his interest hidden, he kneels beside the chair.

“What happened, Will?” He asks. “Tell me.”

He gasps again, sucking in a pained breath. “We have—we have some new evidence. The killer’s…Um. He killed a pair in Memphis—it’s where he came from I _know it._ And his bite marks. He bit into the omega’s bonding mark. Over and over and over again, as if he were trying to get every trace of her alpha mate out of her.”

Will squirms in his seat and, out of the corner of his eye, he sees Will’s hand twitch with the blatant struggle to not scratch at the spot on his neck, where the mark had been.

“He raped her. While she was still alive. Her vaginal muscles pushed him out before he could ejaculate, but there were t- _traces_.”

“He was less careful, then. Normally there is little to be found, correct?”

Will isn’t listening, doesn’t care about the DNA. The FBI already knows that it isn’t on record, that the killer doesn’t have a record.

“I _felt_ all of it. Everything he did to her. It was—I _was her_ , Dr. Lecter.”

Will has associated too closely with an omega. The connection has come too easily because this aspect of Will’s empathy is not yet under his control. He may have empathized with omega victims before, but it was not like this.

“What’s happening to me?”

He’s crying now. The scent of an omega in distress, the panicked dewing upon heated skin, fills his nostrils. Makes him ache to pull him to his chest. But in this fragile state, an unsure Will, still unfortunately driven by the ghost of alpha instinct, would be negatively affected by such an action; Hannibal restrains himself. He leans forward a single inch, tips his head down and widens his posture in a gesture opening himself up to Will, should he desire what Hannibal so wants to give. If Will’s eyes, darting jumpily about the room, take in the meaning of Hannibal’s body language, the information does not reach the cognitive centers of his brain. He opts to take a different tactic.

“You are under a great deal of stress, William.” He inclines forward. Raises his hand to press against the man’s clammy forehead before letting it drop slowly to cup his cheek. Will leans beautifully into the contact, letting his eyes drop briefly shut.

_So sweet._

“Your status is altering.” He pauses, to let the weight of this sink in to Will. He shows no understanding, but Hannibal is sure his mind is as active as ever.

“It is rare, but not entirely unheard of, in such situations. It is likely that your alpha status was already on the border. Overexertion can cause such a reaction.” That isn’t a lie, though Hannibal’s explanation for the situation is. But the notion that he would disclose the truth to Will is ridiculous. Even after the change completes, he would flee from Hannibal’s side the moment he realized.

With firm hands that juxtapose Will’s quivering body, Hannibal draws the man up out of the chair, presses him aside and takes his place, seated in the chair. The leather is a bit heated from Will’s presence. Then, he tugs Will downward, so his legs straddle Hannibal’s own.

This position is chosen for a reason. Will’s lingering alpha hormones would spike and run haywire if he were pinned into a submissive position beneath Hannibal—on the floor, or perhaps the couch. But by letting the man rest atop his lap, the lap of perhaps the one person he trusts in the world, so the warmth of their groins are nearly touching, Hannibal can bend and mold his body as he pleases while letting Will retain the ruse of equality. Furthermore, this position is optimal for when he gently takes Will’s neck in his hand and bends him down towards his own. He does not lead Will’s nose all the way to his scent point, just above his collarbone, but he brings him close enough for a whiff. Over the next few moments, Will goes the rest of the distance himself—lured in by a biological impulse that he can neither cognize nor truly notice.

A few long minutes later, Will’s sobs have subsided in favor of a faint rocking that shifts his weight nearer and nearer Hannibal’s chest with each swing. His nose never strays farther than an inch from Hannibal’s neck. He is admittedly pleased with this variation from their normal routine. While the increase in Will’s anxiety is unfortunate, as is the terrible tragedy that brought him here, the fact that Hannibal’s hands and scent are alone enough to calm him is exceedingly lovely.

“Am I shifting to beta?” Will asks. He doesn’t need to speak loudly for his voice to reach Hannibal’s ears, at this proximity, and he takes advantage of this by keeping his words at a whisper. It sounds as if he worries speaking louder will make his fear more obvious—a sorry attempt when Hannibal continues to circle the panic-clammy skin of his lower back with his thumbs.

“No,” Hannibal says, voice and tone normal, but even that is obviously soothing, when Will can feel the rumble of his chest so near. He is sure that Will already knows the answer, would not be here if he did not at least suspect, but voicing the truth in this position will make him even more vulnerable to Hannibal—he can hardly resist.

“You are becoming an omega.” A shudder goes down his spine at the words—Hannibal feels it beneath his fingertips—but there is otherwise no obvious reaction.

“Can you smell it?”

Hannibal would commend him for speaking so strongly, when asking the predator if he smells of supper.

“I can, vaguely.” An understatement, by a long shot. Will’s scent may be subtle to other alphas, but to Hannibal’s heightened smell, as well as what can only be described as his _fixation_ on Will Graham, the aroma is a bouquet of hormones that truthfully makes leaving his hands on his back a formidable struggle.

Will takes in a raspy breath. Asks, “Why is this _happening?_ ” And Hannibal lets him sit in silence for a long moment, rather than giving him another lie. The truth, _because I want you for mine_ , is so far from his tongue it is almost laughable. After listening to a few more shallow breaths, Hannibal lets his judgment be briefly clouded and partakes. His hands slide an inch lower to the waistband of Will’s terrible khaki pants. If the motion does not escape Will’s notice, he says nothing, simply breathes a little deeper against Hannibal’s neck. Keeping his palms pressed to bare skin, he circles his hands to the upper ridges of Will’s hips, feeling the jut of hipbones through thick fabric with his little fingers.

This time, Will’s back arches. The change is miniscule, but it makes Hannibal come to the realization that Will, from a prolonged exposure to alpha pheromones, has drifted off into a lucid sort of sleep—half-awake, half-dreaming. There is unlikely to be a better opportunity than this to test how Will’s body has acclimated thus far.

Slowly, he drags his hands up and down Will’s body, seeking out known omegan pressure points to see if and how he reacts to prodding. Some make him gasp, some barely cause him to stir, some make him jerk so hard Hannibal wonders if it will catapult him from the haze, and when Hannibal touches the place where Will’s neck curves up to meet his chin, his hips thrust forward and finally brush against Hannibal’s. A mewling sound escapes his lips. Hannibal must restrain the growl that births low in his stomach, less it rouse his William.

_His William._ It is perhaps the first time he has considered the man by such a phrase, and he knows for a fact that it will not be the last. It is undoubtedly true, as his fingers curl around the button of Will’s trousers, flicking it deftly open. He does not make the effort to move the waistband downwards, it is unnecessary, when they hang so loosely from his actively leaning hips. 

Hannibal wonders how Will’s body must have changed over the past few months, how his influence must have leaned the muscle, weakened them, and tightened his ass. He almost wishes he could have seen what he looked like as an alpha, but then, that would only taint this image of this omega that is truly and completely _his._ Controlled, _created_ by him.

Will’s cock is already half-hard when he brushes his fingers down the underside of it. 

“ _Ah—“_ Will moans out, a tiny sound that coils off the edge of an exhale. “ _Feels—_ “

He does not complete the statement, cannot because Hannibal wraps his hand around the base. In one short movement, he pulls up toward the head, circling his the top expertly so as to tease at the slit. Will’s cock is large, just as Hannibal anticipated. A true alpha cock, large and broad and extremely erect. This is something that William will never be rid of and Hannibal would not have it another way. It can forever serve as a reminder of what Will was and what he became.

Will begins to thrust into his hand, hips rolling gorgeously so Hannibal can see how every muscle in his body strains for it. Aches for contact—for Hannibal’s hands. Hannibal would do so much for him, would take him apart in every intricate way Will cannot even begin to imagine, and he would enjoy it with every fiber of his being.

But now is not the time.

Still, he cannot bury the urge to slide the hand pressed to Will’s lower back a bit farther. To bury his middle and index fingers between the succulent mounds of Will’s ass. To stray even lower, seeking out that sweet moistness that, if the change were complete, would all but _pour_ from his orifice.

Will’s sighs and groans grow more desperate, less smothered. His mouth drops open into an _o_ of pure pleasure.

“ _Oh_ , darling Will,” he murmurs as the man finally shudders into his hands, release staining his fingers hot, white. His fondness for the man swells and nearly fractures with the intensity of it. _Sweet Will, intelligent and beautiful and so nearly perfect_ —Hannibal has him all to himself. Now and forever.

On the finger pressed to Will’s rim, he feels that sought-out wetness. It is faint, but it is there. Not pouring as much as dripping.

Hannibal does not need to lift his fingers to his mouth to know what it will taste of.

* * *

Will is dazed, later, when he stands from Hannibal’s lap and lets him redo his trousers.

“I have something for you,” he says quietly. He brings his hand up to tuck his fingers under Will’s chin. Eye contact is now more important than ever. “I bought it last week, after I first noticed.”

Will seems simultaneously hurt and grateful that Hannibal did not tell him so early. Instead of speaking with his shaking voice, he nods. Widens his eyes expectantly.

“You should see another medical professional, obviously. But until then, I worry about your hormone levels. I have here a regulator that should at least keep you stable for the time being.”

Will looks down at his feet regardless of Hannibal’s hand. Far too trusting, he suspects nothing when Hannibal leads him to sit upon the mahogany desk while he prepares the syringe. He does not even ask what’s in it, why he needs to take it. The man is so far into the lion’s den, and he does not even know.

Will runs a sweaty palm across his sweatier face and makes for the door on unsteady feet. After opening it, he halts, turns back to face Hannibal. He wants to say something, Hannibal knows, but would likely remain silent even if he were not shattered by his orgasm. Hannibal takes pity: “Until next time, Will.”

A short nod is all he gets before the door falls shut behind him. After listening for the outer door, out of the building and the resounding car door slamming shut, Hannibal picks up the phone.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’ve been thinking about 'Metamorphosis' lately.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're with me on tumblr you've heard all my excuses and apologies for the massive gap between the last chapter and this one. For the others, I would like to APOLOGIZE. University work got the best of me this semester. I suck, BUT on the bright side, I've finished the fic so you can expect regular updates for the remainder of the story. Thank you so much for sticking with me and I hope you all enjoy and think the wait was worth it ^_^

“I thought you deserved to know,” Hannibal says into the phone, concluding an unpleasant but entirely necessary conversation. It took two long days just to get ahold of Crawford, who is apparently so in the midst of the Pair-Killer Case that he cannot bother to pick up a call from his lead agent’s therapist—and his friend. “I know you keep Will Graham’s best interests at heart.”

 _“Thank you_ ,” Jack says sincerely across the line. Apparently, he would not know sarcasm if it dropped on his steel desk in the form of a bleeding cadaver. “ _I think I will hold off on telling Will that I know. Just until this case is over. Will finally got a name, if you can believe it. I probably shouldn’t even be talking to you about it, but he only found it after going to speak with you a few days ago. Anyways, those three days down south paid off and he found the first murder case in Memphis. A bonded pair murdered sporadically behind a movie theater. He checked out the surrounding area for any suspiciously behaving betas and found a guy named Clark Jefferson. Everything seems to match up. Been away from his home for weeks now, since the first murders. We’ve got pictures, the entire Memphis police force out looking for him. It’s only a matter of time.”_

After bragging, going on about how things finally seem to be turning around, Jack hurriedly adds, _“But after the case, well…Rules are rules._ ”

Apparently rules are not so important when one’s career hangs in the balance.

“I trust you will not let him know that I was the one that told you?”

“ _Of course, Dr. Lecter. Doctor-patient confidentiality goes both ways, right?_ ” Hannibal does not bring up the fact that the current discussion has exactly nothing to do with Doctor-Patient confidentiality. Jack is not and never will be one of his patients. He lets his silence serve as his own undetectable disdain and Jack’s confirmation.

* * *

 

In truth, Hannibal never expected Jack to follow through on the believed existence of any amount of trust between the two of them. He depended on it, really. It brings Will rushing to his office, banging his fist against the door when he finds it locked, while Hannibal has a patient bawling in the chair opposite him.

Hannibal excuses himself with a small smile and quickly unlocks the door, slipping outside. The waiting room is mercifully empty. There is no one to see Hannibal grip Will by the forearms and push him across the room into a chair.  
“I am with another patient. You will have to wait until I am finished. Understood?”

“I’m not—you can’t—“

“ _Later_ , Will,” he snaps, because he knows very well what this is about. To keep Will from arguing, from running off, Hannibal utilizes his knowledge of omegan pressure points, grazing his fingers over the confirmed one just about Will’s collarbone. He presses into it so hard it is sure to leave a bruise, to leave something for Will to think about while Hannibal sits on the other side of the door.

It does the trick: Will looks suddenly dazed, giving an unsure nod before shakily leaning back. Hannibal nods back at him and, as he straightens up and moves away, drags his fingers across Will’s face and through his hair.

Hannibal’s client is jumpier when he returns, less willing to open up. Hannibal frankly couldn’t care less—he would press the blubbering fool out the door in an instant if his presence did not provide an opportunity for Hannibal to exert some discipline.

It is still another thirty minutes before Hannibal opens the door and ushers Will, a bit more pulled together now, into the room.

“You told Jack,” he mutters. _Interesting._ They must have found Mr. Jefferson. “ _Why_ would you tell Jack?!”

Hannibal does not respond. Will’s anger is rolling through him like a tidal wave; it is only a matter of time before it’s strength is lost.

“Can you _say_ something _?_ Anything? I got _suspended,_ Lecter!” Something about the way Will only uses his last name, no suffix or even the informality of his first name (which Will has yet to speak more than a handful of times) sets him off. With one hand, he seizes Will’s shirt and pulls him closer, roughly shaking his shoulders to shut him up.

“I apologize that you were suspended, Will,” Hannibal speaks against Will’s ear. He is actually surprised that Will has only been suspended and not fired entirely, as Hannibal hoped. Surely United States protocol dictates that unmated omegas cannot hold government positions. Perhaps Jack has, once again, managed to bend the rules.

“But you must see that I had no choice. The laws of our society dictate that I, as I medical professional, take action to ensure status conformity.”

“But I’m not—this isn’t—Dr. Lecter, I _can’t_ —“ Will is babbling, trying to form words to convey the _sheer injustice_ that has been done to him.

“I can’t do this. I’m an _alpha._ I don’t _want this._ Isn’t there something I can do? C-can’t I take something for it, take pills to get back to normal?”

This is an expected response and one Hannibal was unable to prepare for beyond preparing his persuasive abilities. If Will seeks the opinion of another medical professional, he will surely discover that his hormones levels have been tampered with. While there is not necessarily a reason for anyone to suspect Hannibal of foul play, it would surely impede the goal that Hannibal has been working toward.

“Will,” Hannibal murmurs. He lowers his voice so that his tone is halfway in the direction of a growl. It has the effect of a rasping sound that moves through Will, crumbling his defenses and making his body both weak and alert. Hannibal feels his knees tremble in the way he leans a bit farther toward him. Hannibal knows it cannot possibly be anything but a biological response, but he can’t help but feel, in his gut, that Will is trying to appease him.

“You need to accept this. The human body can sometimes react to external stimuli in strange ways. If you attempt to do something to fix this, against your body’s nature, it may cause more harm than good.”

Will looks up, letting his wide eyes, glistening with unshed tears, meet Hannibal’s. Shaking his head, he says, “But I’m an _alpha._ ”

“Not anymore, dear Will. Not now.” Hannibal sits on his desk with his legs spread and loops an arm around Will’s waist so the man can bury his face in his chest. Will takes it as an opportunity to cry, but Hannibal really just wants him to take in as much of his pheromones as possible. If all goes well, Will Graham will be unable to fathom a relationship with another alpha, once he is fully receptive.

“You’re… you’re courting me.” Will says, a bit dumbly. It takes Hannibal by surprise. He thought he had been subtle enough in his actions, had played the part of friend and psychiatrist perfectly. He was mistaken. He would have thought of an excuse for the actions, a method of sidestepping Will’s accusation by implying that Will’s hormones are putting ideas in his head.

But Will does not seem offended by it as Hannibal would have expected, this early. His voice is laced with such incredulousness, one would think he himself has no qualities worth possessing. Droll, because the qualities that Hannibal so _wishes_ to possess are those Will had before Hannibal began to alter him.

He leans back and inclines his head in acquiescence. There is no point in trying to hide his intentions anymore, especially when Will likely thinks himself undesirable and worthless. To have Hannibal invalidate those concerns will only draw him further in.

“I would treat you well, William. You know it to be true. We are already friends. Bonding would be as simple for us as breathing.”

“But you said you weren’t looking for a mate,” Will says weakly. He is being unbearably difficult, but Hannibal anticipated it. He will wait patiently for as long as it takes for Will to accept him. This is the crux of Hannibal’s efforts.

“And I’m not even—I’m not a _real_ omega. _I_ wouldn’t want me.” Will refers to himself, on the first count, as his former alpha status. Hannibal does not waste his breath gently reminding the poor man that he is not an alpha anymore; Will knows. “I’m a _freak_ and you’re an _alpha._ ”

“I would not say that,” Hannibal begins, The pang of jealousy, of longing, lacing the word ‘alpha’ is not lost on Hannibal. He slowly rubs circles into Will’s forearm. This is one benefit to Will not yet being a full omega. Omegan instinct would make Will bolt at the prospect of being so close to an alpha unmated to him, like this. But Will hangs in limbo. He is not yet consciously (or unconsciously) aware of all of the intricacies of alpha-omega relationships. He doesn’t know if he should run or lean in closer.

When he speaks again, his voice is lower and he must lean in even further, must press his chest to Will’s to ensure his can hear. “I care for a great many things. I care for art, for food, for wine. I care for sex and I care for people. Status is only a color, a flavor, an aroma. If anything, your altering only makes your status more rare, more beautiful.”

 _More desirable. A diamond in the rough, amongst a sea of common prospects._ It would be a pleasure to possess an omega such as William Graham.

Will is uneasy on his feet, swaying back and forth, overwhelmed by the influx of information. He takes a step back and tries to pace, an alpha response, only to stumble clumsily toward a wall. Hannibal follows, standing just a single stride away.

“Say yes, Will.” It’s a request, but it is also an order. If Will resists, Hannibal will find another way.

“But I—I can’t—omegas can’t—give consent— _right?_ “

“You were born an alpha, Will. What that implies is that you do not depend on the approval of a parent. Instinct may tell you not to do so, but you _can_ make your own decisions.”

Will chokes a little. “Is _that_ why you want me? Because you won’t have to pay a _dowry_?”

This insinuation alights something powerful and angry in Hannibal’s chest. It makes him temporarily lose himself and instinctively pin Will’s hips up against the wall. He speaks quietly in the echo of the slamming sound.

“ _Look_ around you, William. Do you truly think I would shy from a dowry price? I could pay, and if you desired it of me I would pay whatever price you wish to whomever you so choose.”

 _Perhaps a charity._ An institution that cares for animals would no doubt please him. Will, unsurprisingly, is scared out of his skin by Hannibal’s outburst. The widening of his eyes, the hunching of his shoulders, makes him very much resemble a skittish animal with no means of escape.

“I want _you._ I wanted you before and I want you still. Your new omega status has nothing to do with it, but, I pray, make you willing to consider me.”

Will looks down and to the right, dragging his eyes from one corner of the room to another.

“Please, Will.”

When he speaks, his words are stutters, whimpers, pleas. “I—I have—I have to—go—please, I have to—“

Hannibal will smile later, remembering how William has sunk, so beautifully, into the role of an omega. How he begs for Hannibal’s permission to simply walk from the office. But for now, he must try to put Will at ease. He takes two steps back, freeing Will, and lets the intensifying posture of his shoulders soften. A full stride away, he lifts his hand to Will’s face. His thumb skirts the length of Will’s cheekbone, and his fingers knot lightly into his hair. William can and will easily escape the hold and Hannibal will allow him to. The touch is meant partially as a calming gesture, as an apology, but more so it is to allow his pheromones to cloud Will’s mind once more before he bolts from his territory. And he does, a moment later, when he withdraws his arm.

“Wait, Will,” Hannibal says as an afterthought. It is surprising that Will actually stops rather than continuing to escape from the predator’s den.

“I must give you another hormone regulatory injection. Come back on Thursday. We can discuss this more then. Please.”

Will rolls his shoulders. “Thursday. Yeah. Ok. Here?”

“If you would.”

Will disappears through the door without another word, leaving the thickness of his omega hormones in his wake for Hannibal to savor.

* * *

 

“He knew who I was, when I got there,” Will says. He sits in the broad chair at Hannibal’s desk. He looks almost shrunken, sitting there, as if both the chair and the desk are too large for him. “I should have expected it. He was so obviously only getting worse because of the investigation.”

“Who found him?” Hannibal asks.

“I don’t know. Jack told me. I think it was just one of the cops on duty. Jefferson basically _turned himself in_.” Will pauses to run his fingers through his hair and Hannibal strides from the ladder he is leaning on to stand before the desk. Will flinches, but makes no effort to get away as he continues to disclose to Hannibal how, after almost six weeks, they caught the Pair-Killer.

“He was holed up in a drug store, had some cheap air rifle that he’d probably never even shot before. Jack sent me in first, for whatever reason and this guy he—I don’t know what he thought I was going to be like, but he was _waiting for me._ ”

“Did he speak to you?”

Will takes a rough breath and shakes his head. “I think he wanted to, the way he straightened up while I was coming toward him…but he got one whiff of me…and…He just shoved the pistol into his mouth. He killed himself.”

Hannibal sees the splatter of blood through Will’s eyes. He sees the man, Clark Jefferson, who was consumed by his desire for something he could never obtain. Consumed to the point that, at the end of it all, he all but turned himself in, in a show of capitulation. Then, when faced with the man that has been chasing him, with the only man that could possibly understand him and his need, he finds someone different. Someone entirely unexpected. He sees the confusion on Jefferson’s face—and it is the breaking point. He sees the abyss rising up to meet him. He sees nothing.

“Whatever.” Will hisses out the word between his teeth, exasperated with the whole thing. Hannibal busies himself with preparing the premeasured dose of hormones for Will. “I’m glad it’s done. Except for Jack _suspending me_ hours after I plucked out the biggest thorn in _his side_ all year.”

“You are shocked by his reaction.”

“I get that he was using me. I understand that, always have. I just thought… I didn’t think my usefulness was as dependent on my status as it turned out to be.”

In the days since they last spoke, Will has obviously thought about this a great deal. Everything he knew about his life, about the society that he inhabits has been turned on its head. Hannibal can only imagine the perspective he has gained.

“Have you read any Kafka?” Will asks.

“I have.”

“I’ve been thinking about _Metamorphosis_ lately.” He pauses and smiles that self-deprecating smile that seems to form so easily on his lips. Sarcastically, flippantly, he says, “Optimistic, I know. I don’t—I don’t think I’ve turned into a cockroach, or whatever he was. At least, that’s what I keep telling myself. But anyways, there’s this line from it that I can’t get out of my head…”

Hannibal waits and Will’s eyes glaze over as he speaks.

“ _I cannot make you understand. I cannot make anyone understand what is happening inside me. I cannot even explain it to myself._ ”

Hannibal silently lifts the syringe, motioning for Will to lift his chin to give better access. It is only when the syringe is buried in Will’s flesh, when the contents are half-flushed out, that Hannibal realizes the significance of this position. Of William Graham bearing his neck to him. Will seems to notice it as well—Hannibal sees it click behind his eyes when they momentarily flick to his. When the needle is pulled from his skin, Will does not immediately change his position. He waits for a long, long moment.

Though Will says otherwise, it is impossible to deny that he is subconsciously (although Hannibal would not disregard the possibility that these thoughts are conscious) comparing himself to the man of Franz Kafka’s _magnum opus._ But where Gregor Samsa turned into a vile insect that disgusted his family and employer, Will has turned into something beautiful, precious, rare. Hannibal fears that, no matter how he tries, the poor boy may never see himself for what he is.

Hannibal says quietly, “You do not need to make me understand. I already do.”

Almost the moment Will leaves the submissive position, lowering his chin to his chest, the world seems to crash back down around him. All the air in his lungs leaves him in a rush. He squeezes his eyes shut and Hannibal smells a sheen of sweat birthing upon his skin.

“You touched me, before. Last week.” Will brings it up as if the thought has only just come to him, but Hannibal sees through the smoke. This has been on his mind throughout the entire conversation.

“Why?”

Hannibal smiles down at him with the full knowledge that the boy will not dare look up again for a long moment.

“Would you believe me if I said it was a symptom of unrequited love?”

Will grunts. “I don’t know, Dr. Lecter. Would _you_ believe a claim like that?”

Typical Will, placing himself on the offensive at the first sign of trouble.

“Did you enjoy it?”

“You _know_ I did.”

Indeed, when Hannibal closes his eyes, even now, he can see Will spilling himself upon his fingers, moaning in ecstasy. Eagerly whining against him. Silence falls between them as Hannibal watches the gears in Will’s head turn.

“Why didn’t you ask me then?” _Instead of now_ , is the unspoken portion of the question.

“Would you have said yes before now?”

“I don’t know…” Will says honestly. “I’m seeing the world through very different eyes lately.”

_I am sure that is true._

“Look, I’m not…I’m not saying _no_ , alright?” Will says, as if Hannibal is the one in danger of being harmed from this relationship. “I just need to take some time. My whole life has been practically uprooted over the course of a few weeks.”

Hannibal reads between the lines, senses the fear of abandonment underlying all of this. A better man would not exploit this, but Hannibal is not a saint; he cannot resist the temptation.

“I cannot say I am not a bit disappointed, William. But I suppose, everything considered, you deserve some time to yourself before making a decision such as this.”

Will jerks at the first statement, then relaxes at the second. He looks up at Hannibal with an attempt at a smile on his face and offers up a genuine, “Thank you.”

Hannibal takes Will’s hand in his and lifts it to his mouth, a small kiss. “Only with the promise that you will consider.”

As it goes, in Will’s absence, Hannibal finds his train of thought leading him through Will’s dissatisfactory _ideé fixe_ on _Metamorphosis_ leads him to a different quote altogether. Although often misattributed to Kafka (though Hannibal does not see how; the concept possesses none of the German writer’s characteristic pessimism), the words belong to a Greek philosopher by the name of Nikos Kazantzakis.

 


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He would be the perfect muse—and the most terrible.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A very long chapter. I'm very excited to see responses to this. Enjoy ^_^

That week, the Chesapeake Ripper commits a triple murder (a sounder of three, as Will Graham would put it) and Hannibal Lecter throws a dinner party. He invites his favorites of his fellow sponsors to the Baltimore Opera House, as well as Alana Bloom and Agent Crawford. His omega wife is unable to come, though Hannibal does invite her, and Hannibal thinks it is because of her aversion to the things Hannibal has served in the past. He would extend an invitation to Will, knowing that he would not show up either way, but he has chosen not to impose himself further on the boy. Will’s inevitable decision will be so much sweeter for them both if he comes to it with minimal prodding.

Furthermore, on the off chance that Will _does_ choose to attend the party, he would expose himself to numerous alpha bachelors that would be all too happy to pluck him from Hannibal’s grasp. Hannibal would eviscerate each of them the moment they gave any inclination to do so, but he would do well to not allow such possibilities to occur. In addition, it would be preferable for Will to have little exposure to alpha pheromones with his newly acquired senses until after they are bonded. Will’s physical awareness of those around him could easily become unhinged—he is so close to the breaking point, standing warily on a precipice with only Hannibal to keep him on the correct side.

At this point, as at every point in the process, Hannibal has simply no way of knowing for certain how William will react to stimuli. It is an annoyance, but it makes his veins rush with adrenaline. They are in uncharted territory, he and Will, and Hannibal cannot help the excitement he feels at the prospect of discovering just what changes the human body is capable of.

* * *

On the day of Hannibal’s dinner, Jack arrives late, smelling of day-old sweat and stale coffee. He is unapologetic as usual, his massive demeanor causing everyone to look up when he enters, though he waves off their attentions. All the other guests—members of the Baltimore psychiatric community and the opera board, as well as their omegas—are already seated, when Jack takes the chair beside Hannibal that was left for him. After giving a short greeting to all, in addition to an explanation of what has been laid before them, they begin to devour the amuse-bouches. Hannibal turns to Jack, to hear his excuses for his tardiness.

“I was caught up at Quantico,” he offers. He takes a sip of his kir royale, then continues, “I’m sure you’ve seen the news, it wasn’t too far from here. The Chesapeake Ripper showed his ugly face this week?”

He waits for Hannibal to nod that he is aware of the murders and finishes his drink. Hannibal does not indicate that he had to specifically import a case of the champagne from a small vineyard in France, or that he purchased the crème de cassis during a trip to Tasmania, fifteen years earlier. It appears that the Agent needs to relax.

“The timing couldn’t’ve been worse, with the Pair-Killer case only just wrapping up, and Will being—well, unavailable…” Jack trails off, for the couple sitting to his right have leaned in to listen to an insider’s perspective of the most recent serial murder cases to have gripped the country. “I’ll discuss with you later, doctor.”

Hannibal nods and allows Jack to answer an omega’s questions about what it is like to work at the FBI—and doesn’t the pressure ever become _too great_? He himself turns to the head server stationed behind him and asks for the next course to be brought out. A simple salad with whipped goat’s cheese, warmed beet greens and thinly sliced kadota figs, topped in shaved pancetta that once was the belly of an auto-mechanic. He beat his omega and beta daughter and ruined the wiring on Hannibal’s Bentley, then insisted it had been that way all along. A disgusting human being.

The main course is a poblano iota carrageenan custard, served with ‘pork’ loin. The meat of this dish came from a few different sources, including the mechanic, but more prominently a fellow psychiatrist from Hartford by the name of Dr. Green. It was perhaps too close a relation to himself, but the man attempted to plagiarize one of his yet unpublished articles and he could not let such an act go unpunished. Hannibal must explain the gastronomic processes that went into the elastic-like gelatin, and receives an ovation for his efforts. He inclines his head and sips from the berry-rich pinot noir he has selected specifically to go with the taste of the poblano pepper. 

After the meal, once all but Jack have left his home and gone their separate ways, Hannibal takes a page from Will’s book and pours whiskey for them both. He choose the bottle that Will brought, and he almost tastes his scent on his tongue when he takes the first sip, his fear and his pheromones and his arousal, all in one. Hannibal is shocked, as he waits for Jack to begin speaking, that he wishes Will were here, beside him.

He misses him. He knows, logically, that the days he has left without Will at his beck and call are few numbered, but impatience goes hand-in-hand with longing. He is tired of waiting and ponders ways to make the time pass more quickly.

“Have you visited Tattle Crime?” Jack asks.

“I have.”

“Then you know the modus operandi. A car mechanic, a psychiatrist, a desk worker from a nearby medical practice... The mechanic and the secretary were from Baltimore, but the psychiatrist—maybe you know him? Alexander Green?”

“I knew of him. I am on the mailing list of his university, so I received word regarding his death early the following day.”

Hannibal remembers the email he received, how it was elegantly crafted to portray the tragedy that the community had suffered. Rather than the likely relief of the administration of a vile professor that gained tenure years earlier and had seen fit to cease to offer a single substantial benefit of his own devising for quite a while. It is interesting how death so often makes saints of the worst men.

“Terrible. He was abducted from his home, we think—that doesn’t help, though because the car mechanic was taken from where he works and they were two states away from one another. The Ripper travelled a bit this time…”

Hannibal allows himself to disregard everything Jack says from that point on. It is a batched recounting of one of Hannibal’s greatest works yet, in his opinion, and it pains him to hear one so blind vastly misinterpret the scenes laid before him. Agent Crawford’s intellect may be more than suitable to the average perpetrator of serial murders, but Hannibal sees himself far enough above such people to barely be considered the same.

“…But I won’t know for sure until I show Will some pictures of the crime scene.” This statement is spoken quietly, muttered loud enough for Hannibal to hear, but only half-heartedly. It sounds to be a confession, an appeal to Hannibal’s sympathies—Jack doesn’t have any choice in the matter of Will’s suspension, he held on to him as long as he could. And now he is left with the sole option of showing Will photocopies of original pictures, off the record, to see if Will has even a shred of an idea to offer to the investigation. Jack Crawford is grasping at straws, and it is almost painful for Hannibal to see. Even more so with the knowledge that none will see and appreciate his work again—lest someone somehow smuggle Will in, against FBI regulations.

Hannibal thinks it may not be so bad, to allow Will to work. It isn’t as if the poor boy is suited to housework (at least not initially) after all, and Hannibal will be able to change his mind about Will’s specific freedoms at any time he wishes. It will be his right, as Will’s alpha—by biology and by law.

* * *

The next morning, Hannibal packs up some leftover iota carrageen custard, as well as a smaller version of the salad he served, and heads to Wolf Trap, Virginia. When he arrives, just past eleven, Will is sitting on the porch, fiddling with a lure. He glances up for a split second when Hannibal first turns into the drive, but does not look up again until he is standing before the steps. He looks surprised to see him there.

“I thought you were Jack.” Will provides, when Hannibal cocks his head.

“Are you expecting Agent Crawford?” Perhaps the Jack has already set aside time with Will to ask his opinion.

“No, I just wasn’t…paying attention.” Will stands and Hannibal sees that Will has actually been deconstructing the lure, unwinding the thin, red-colored hemp tied around it to pluck the feathers free. He is only half-done, but he readily sets it on the porch. Adds hurriedly, “I’m glad you aren’t Jack, of course. Really—really glad.”

There is a light blush across Will’s cheeks, in a way that has nothing to do with him being out in the sun for an indefinite amount of time prior to Hannibal’s arrival. His fingers are shaking as well, and he seems to notice this, because he moves both hands behind his back and grips one of the wooden posts supporting the overhang. He looks incredibly vulnerable, as he lets his eyes meet Hannibal’s, and the alpha is unsure how intrinsic the motion is. Hannibal places his foot on the second step up the porch, then swiftly steps close to Will.

He only intends to give him a peck on the cheek, so as to scent him and assay the degree of his change, but then Will, taking his hands from the post, seizes him by the lapels of his jacket and kisses him on the lips, effectually erasing all Hannibal’s impulsions but.

Will’s lips are warm. His teeth are sharp, though he does nothing with that vicious wherewithal, and his tongue is silken as it slides along Hannibal’s lower lip.

When Will lets him go, slowly, his eyes are wide and his upper lip is wet; Hannibal realizes that he had been sucking on it, and the tastes of Will’s morning coffee, his toothpaste, his sweetness—they are all still painfully fresh on Hannibal’s tongue.

He wants more.

“Sorry,” Will says, breaking the mid-morning silence. Will’s fingers are no longer shaking and Hannibal thinks this may be the calmest that he has ever seen him.

Inside Will’s home, the dogs wag their tails and yip for whatever gifts Hannibal has brought them. They smell the meat in his bag, no doubt, and Hannibal extends his hand with a bit of flesh he had fried for them, just for this purpose.

“You’re spoiling them,” Will says lightly. His tone emanates requiescence and his body language is much similar. Gone is the tense, tormented Will of before, simply from kissing Hannibal, from being in his presence for a few moments.

The implications of this are supplicating. It is not as if Hannibal ever doubted himself, but he is comfortable with the knowledge that William will be forever comfortable, once they are mated, and Hannibal’s mating mark is forever seared in his skin. His nightmares will be gone, his demons exterminated unless Hannibal desires they be drawn out. He will be safe and sweet, all flushed cheeks and fluttering eyelashes and wordless pleas for salvation—which Hannibal would readily give.

He pulls the containers of Will’s prepared meal from his bag and places them on the countertop.

“You’re spoiling _me_ ,” he murmurs, but the lightness is gone now, replaced by a strange sort of breathlessness that makes Hannibal genuinely smile.

“Not quite yet.” Will’s ever-present blush deepens, stretches below the collar of his shirt. He looks down to the food and fiddles with one of the tops.

“You only brought one serving?”

“Yes, I am afraid I cannot stay. I’ve only come to give you your hormone regulator, as we discussed. Despite our shared affections on the front porch, you would appreciate more time to consider, I am sure.”

And if Will doesn’t look entirely disappointed. He would never admit it, not even to himself, but with his hormones running haywire, Hannibal is sure there is a small part of Will _at least_ that wishes Hannibal would just _take him_ roughly and make him his forever.

But, though Hannibal would like to do so, he has different plans for this day.

He takes his medical kit from his bag as well and sets it beside the food. The sixth (and final) injection is taken willingly, with Will’s chin raised high, baring his neck in almost pure submission. Hannibal can _taste_ what is so nearly his, but it will be all the more sweeter if he only waits. After administering it, he puts the needle away and fetches Will a glass of water from his cabinet. With Will none the wiser, he tips a teaspoon of a colorless, tasteless powder into the glass. If his calculations are correct, that is all it will take. He is careful not to watch too closely, as Will drinks half the water in one gulp.

He wipes a stray drop of water from Will’s lips with his thumb and murmurs, “I should leave you. Please call me if you need anything.”

Will stands. “Thank you, Dr. Lecter, I really—“

“Will, I think you should be calling me Hannibal by now. Please.”

The man just smiles and nods, abandoning his words of gratitude for speechlessness at being on a first name basis with the doctor (although Hannibal has been calling Will by his first name for months). Will shows him out the door and kisses him again, not quite a last effort to convince Hannibal to stay, though it is in that direction, but Hannibal is already pulling away, cupping Will’s face in his hand and bidding farewell.

* * *

Hannibal drives to a gas station fifteen minutes away from Will’s home. The building shares the space with a coffee brand that Hannibal does not recognize, but he can tell by the look of the sludge he receives upon ordering a small, black coffee, that it would have been better to drive up the road a few miles to find a café that does _not_ share facilities with a store selling Hostess confectionaries.

It does not matter, not really, Hannibal does not expect to be kept waiting long, as he takes out his phone and places it on the table. While he waits, he skims over an old anatomical textbook he purchased a few months prior. But try as he might to get lost in the archaic (but ever relevant) drawings, the simple explanations of the workings of the human body, he finds his mind drifting to a very _specific_ body, and the changes it must currently be going through.

Finally, after nearly forty-five minutes of waiting (fifty since Will consumed the drug) Hannibal’s phone rings. Will is hectic when he answers, not waiting to hear Hannibal’s greeting.

“ _Dr. Lecter—_ “

“Will, do you remember what I said?” He does not even bother to hide the smirk in his voice. Will must be so ablaze with pumping hormones that he will not even begin to notice. “Call me Hannibal.”

“ _Hannibal! Oh, god, Hannibal, I don’t know what’s—“_ He cuts himself off with a long groan of agony. The sound is practically contrition. It, by itself, makes everything that Hannibal has done for the past six weeks worth it. “ _I think I’m—I think I’m in heat.”_

“Will, that is impossible, you would have to be experiencing a spike in hormone levels to go into heat. It’s hardly possible at this stage.”

“ _Please, please, please, please, please, I need you, Hannibal, I need you so bad.”_

Hannibal pauses. Closes his eyes and listens to Will whine into the phone. Then, he hangs up.

* * *

He takes his time driving, for the second time today, through the back roads of Wolf Trap. The drive would only take five minutes, if he went over the speed limit, but Will must not suspect that he never ventured very far from his home. It takes him thirty minutes to return to Will’s home.

The symptoms of an omega’s heat are the result of a spike in hormones during ovulation. Although triggered first and foremost by the biological ability to reproduce, they are actually the result of the cocktail of chemicals thrumming through the omega’s veins, instructing the body to go through a variety of steps in preparation. Therefore, with the proper base (which Hannibal has created in Will over the last six weeks) a heat can be forged, forced upon the body even though the omega is not truly at the most fertile point of its menstrual cycle. If Hannibal has correctly interpreted Will’s probable hormone levels, then the mixture he gave him earlier should give him the symptoms regular to heat—internal lubrication, mate-attracting pheromone secretion, pelvic restructuring, and, of course, the psychologically perceived need to mate and to reproduce. Will, even without the proper physiological components to make such a thing possible naturally, is capable of all those symptoms.

When he opens the door to his car, in Will’s driveway once more, his heightened senses pick up the heat pheromones even from outside, more than a handful of meters from the house. Will must smell him too, through the front door, because he is on the porch in an instant, throwing himself down the steps in a lovely spectacle of avidity. The sight of the heat-ridden omega (because he is undoubtedly an omega now, by almost every definition of the word) in the open air, where any rival could smell him, makes a primal sort of rage birth deep inside. He almost growls, but qualms it, just as Will comes into earshot.

“Will, I—“

“Oh god, _oh god_ , Hannibal, Hannibal _please_ I need—“ Will practically throws himself at him, grips at his shirt collar and tries to rut against his leg—left over alpha instincts. Such a motion will provide him with no avail. Not anymore.

“Will, I must apologize,” he says, gripping Will by his forearms and holding him away. “I had no idea kissing you would have this affect. I never imagined that you were already so receptive to my pheromones. Could you forgive me?”

The excuse that it was their shared kisses (both the first and the second) that has catapulted him into his heat is unnecessary but useful. Hannibal had not planned for it, but Will’s eagerness makes it all too easy.

“Yes, _yes,_ _fuck_ , it hurts—just _do something about it_.”

“What would you like me to do?”

“I don’t kn-know—“ Will stutters, confused by the question. The receptors in his brain are not quite attune to what it is that his body demands for relief. But Hannibal refuses to spell it out for him. He has waited a long time for this—has jumped through innumerable hoops to get to this point. He _will_ hear William beg to be taken for the first time.

“M-my insides they—I feel like I’m l-leaking and I can’t—can’t breath—“ A few tears trickle out of the poor boy’s eyes and Hannibal wipes at them with his thumb. Will leans into his touch, blatantly aches for it when it is gone. “It’s so h-hot, Hannibal.”

Hannibal lets his arms settle around Will’s hips. He feels his back arch into the light pressure, muscles twisting and pulsing beneath his fingertips. Silently begging to be touched— _everywhere_. Hannibal pulls Will close, presses their lips lightly together and whispers, “What do you want me to do, William?”

And finally, Will chokes out those gorgeous words.

“M- _mate me_.”

Hannibal smiles. Rewards Will with a kiss, deeper than the ones before, by far. He presses his tongue inside and laps at the inner contours of Will’s mouth. Beneath his touch, Will opens up. His eyes fall lightly closed and his shoulders lean back. He rocks onto his heels and Hannibal becomes aware that Will is only upright, only afloat, because of his hands on his lower back, grounding him.

“Are you sure?” He asks. It is admittedly unfair, to pose such a question after having Will drink from his pheromones, from the testosterone levels in his saliva. Even more so, after Hannibal has inflicted this irrationality upon him, purposefully.

But the question is, as always, for the aesthetic pleasure of seeing Will keen and hearing him insist: “I’m sure,” Will says.

Will is unbearably sweet. “Then shall we move upstairs?”

“Yes, yes, oh god, _yes._ ” The gratitude in his voice is addictive. It makes him pine for the same words, the same tone, spoken in absolution while he himself is buried deep inside the boy.

Hannibal leads the way, symbolically taking ownership of Will’s territory as he poisons the area with his scent (although Will is perhaps not as metaphorically inclined, to see such a thing for himself). Will is his now, as is everything that once belonged to him.

Inside the single bedroom in Will Graham’s home, the bed is unmade. It smells of dog and of sweat—of Will’s night terrors—and Hannibal turns his nose up at the various piles of dirty clothes around the room. Will has been living as a bachelor alpha for his whole life and Hannibal has no doubt that reconditioning him to the sensibilities of a mated omega will not be a simple task, but it does not matter so much, truly. Had Hannibal wanted a perfect omega mate, he could have found one years ago. But he wants Will.

Hannibal kisses the omega (because that is what Will is now, undeniably, by almost every meaning of the word) from the pure joy of _having him._ Hannibal almost always gets what he wants, but wanting a person in a way that society would deem unsavory and even the person himself would rebel from has been a provocative experience. Will groans into his mouth, loops his arms around his neck and opens his mouth just a tad wider, inviting.

With the aim to savor every second of this, Hannibal undresses Will slowly. His fingers map the forms of each new inch of skin presented to him, and when he is naked, they settle on his thighs. Will, suddenly aware of his vulnerable nudity, shrinks into himself. It takes another deep kiss on Hannibal’s part, one that strays from the omega’s gorgeous lips to his jawline, to his neck, to open him up again. Hannibal mouths over the base of his neck, where he imagines he will leave his bonding mark. Will’s resulting whine is a plea for just that.

“Onto the bed, my darling. I want you comfortable.”

Will is quick to obey, and Hannibal allows his gaze to rove over first view of his soon-to-be mate’s pert ass as he undresses to match Will. There’s a thin trail of moisture trailing down its cleft, down his left thigh. It isn’t much, but it is there, a beacon, a lighthouse, calling to Hannibal through the hazy cloud that Will’s pheromones have inflicted on his mind. He is in rut now, discernibly so, and Hannibal cannot resist the temptation. Beginning where the trail gives way to dry flesh, he drags the rough pad of his thumb across the skin, all the way to the puckered entrance.

“ _Hannibal_!” Will cries, so shocked he is at being touched there. Will’s neck strains and curves in a perfect line and even through his murky arousal Hannibal imagines his hand sketching that line, letting it curve north to the first furls of cinnamon hair (lightened by the sun streamed through the window) at the base of Will’s neck. He imagines painting that color in a brown, so warm and sweet, resonant of the taste of the omega’s sweat. He could sculpt his darling’s brow from clay or form the greatest of pianist compositions, like the gentlest of movements of Rachmaninov’s Sonata No. 1, but Hannibal fears that nothing he does will ever truly capture the _essence_ that is Will Graham.

He would be the perfect muse—and the most terrible. Hannibal does not know why he only sees it now, when Will is his for the taking, the violent turbulence of Will’s substance, his unpredictable nature (shown by that sudden kiss, only earlier this very morning). Its blatancy is appalling, enthralling, as if every rush of adrenaline he should have experienced, every time his stomach should have dropped in fear, before now has taken hold of him.

He has wanted Will so badly, he is afraid of what will happen once he has him.

His thumb breaches the rim of Will’s hole, sliding in with the ease from his slick. Inside, Will is heated and tight, his inner walls clenching and unclenching in effort to push him out and pull him in, all at once. Will shudders at the first penetration, and his head drops between his shoulder blades. In his momentary, uncharacteristic anxiety, Hannibal has been deaf to Will’s pleas, but now they ring in his ears all at once. It makes his cock, already aching, twitch between his legs. He growls, jerking his hips lightly against the air to mirror his thumb.

Amidst those moans of agony, Will manages his first coherent thought: “W-will it hurt?”

“A bit, perhaps. Your body may be slow to adjust for it…” Secretly, Hannibal hopes this is not entirely the case. Although he would not want William harmed more than he can handle, and certainly never permanently, he would take a barbarous sort of glee from the knowledge that Will would feel him still inside him for days after their first copulation.

When Will does not relax at Hannibal’s words, he places his free palm on Will’s shoulder, pulls him back so he is only on his knees leaning back against his chest. Hannibal mouths against his neck, suckles at the sensitive skin to the side of Will’s throat so hard and for so long that Will gasps and tips his head back over his shoulder. His legs give out, so he sinks farther back on Hannibal’s thumb. Hannibal groans at the gush of slick in response, wet on his fingers, and says, “Trust me. We will go slow.”

Will nods. Is pliant as Hannibal bends him back toward the rumpled sheets and blankets below.

“Darling,” Hannibal whispers to him, as he withdraws his thumb and curls himself over Will. His bare chest to Will’s bare back, they are nothing but skin on skin. Will seems just as enamored with the sensation as himself, the boy pushes himself up, as far as he can. Hannibal returns the gesture with a few kisses at the nape of his neck. He nuzzles at the skin, finally pressing his cock to the cleft of Will’s ass. There is no precum yet, but Will’s slick is more than enough for it to be pleasurable, as he shoves against his shaking body. “Oh, Will.”

Will moans back. His back is arched now, so his ass is perfectly positioned for Hannibal’s cock. “C-can’t wait any longer… _Hah!_ ”

 _He_ cannot wait any longer. If William only knew how long Hannibal had waited, how long he’d dreamed of this—of Will, heated beneath him—perhaps he would not speak in such a way.

 _“You want me to make you feel good?_ ” Hannibal grinds out. And Will nods, babbles incoherently about how he wants him _so bad._

He pushes in, slow and steady, but there’s a certain point, when Hannibal feels Will’s internal muscles give way to him, that he fails to stay in the present. He feels swept away by how good it feels to be inside his Will. It perhaps would have been beneficial to wait another week or two before making his move—the lubrication glands inside Will have yet to open entirely and become fully functional. There is a thin layer of wetness, glazing his passage, enough for a thin trail to barely leak out, surges of the stuff every once in a while, dripping down between his buttocks. But it isn’t as much as there should be; there is no increase once Hannibal begins to take him in earnest. Hannibal is harming Will, undoubtedly, but he doubts the omega is strong (or present) enough to do anything about it. He thrusts on, his hips starting to piston.

“It—it hurts, oh god, don’t stop— _oh!_ ” Will moans then, long and hard, as if all the air is going from his lungs. His insides shift only minutely, yet it makes all the difference as Hannibal finally feels his knot settle firmly inside.

“ _See?_ ” Hannibal rasps in Will’s ear. He feels his orgasm rushing in on him (so soon) from all sides and needs desperately—from a place deep inside that he does not quite recognize—for Will to cum first. His knot is forming, blood rushing to the base of his dick. “See how _perfect_ you are, now? Look at you, my _gorgeous omega_ , all mine, _mine._ ”

Will whines, more high-pitched than Hannibal has ever heard on his voice. For a moment, Hannibal forgets that Will was ever anything other than this—than his beautiful, writhing omega, beautifully spreading to take his cock. Hannibal would rather it not have come to this, but it appears there is little choice—he shifts his weight onto one hand to reach between his William’s legs and grasp his cock. Will is already so hypersensitive, so blitzed out on endorphins that it takes only two tugs for him to spill out across the sheets. He simultaneously arches his back into Hannibal’s chest, nestling the knot just incrementally further without meaning to.

The spastic contracting of Will’s inner walls caress Hannibal’s sex from every angle. It almost feels as if Will is melting around him, as if his pliable body is turning to liquid from the heat Hannibal is giving him. Hannibal jerks and roars, temporarily losing control as he sinks his teeth into Will’s neck (the spot that will become their bonding mark).

Then, he’s cumming, whiting out so intensely that everything but the heat and his mate falls away. There is nothing but Will’s smell, the smell he created like a parfumier, now sullied forever by his own.

It’s instinct, biology, but it is also more than that—it is _power._ What Hannibal has done to this man, pinned beneath his body is pure, insuperable _supremacy._ Not only has he asserted his dominance over a rival predator, but he has altered that predator, forced him down the chain of hierarchy and _made him his._ The significance of this comes to him only now, when he has finally, after weeks and weeks, succeeded in obtaining this.

Because if he can do this, can defy the laws of nature with naught but his own will, what could possibly stand in his way?

He has ascended above the hierarchy of men, above the mere title of _alpha._

He is a god.


	8. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You may consider it… me spoiling you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Um. Sorry.

Hannibal wakes slowly, to darkness. At first he is unsure where he is—he does not recall falling asleep, but as he meanders further into consciousness he realizes where he is and what he has done.

Will is wrapped tightly in his arms, still naked and still warm. It has been some hours since they made love, in the early afternoon, and Hannibal is shocked that he slept so soundly for all that time. He mouths thoughtfully over the mark of enflamed skin upon his shoulder—he would like to bite it again, to further seal his claim on his omega, but it would perhaps be better to wake him in a sweeter way.

As Hannibal shifts, rolls onto his back, he feels his cock still wet with the slick from their coupling. His knot went away at some point during their nap, and neither he nor Will seemed bothered enough to shift away from the other. He kisses Will’s shoulder, sucking lightly at the skin before releasing it at rubbing the stubble on his cheeks against the sensitized flesh. His eyes have grown accustomed to the dark of the room (the moonlight does much less than his alpha senses) and he gazes carefully over the outline of Will’s face, calm as he sleeps. He lets his kisses grow more and more vicious, visceral, his teeth nipping at the flesh. He aims to rouse his mate as gently as possible, but even his self control is subject to inherent limitations—at times.

Hannibal recognizes the moment that his darling comes into consciousness, gasping and pushing back towards the safety of his alpha all at once. He must feel Hannibal’s cock, already hard again, pressed at his backside because he lets out a single whining sound in surprise. Endearingly distressed. Hannibal rubs his hands up Will’s chest, over each nipple, so his fingernails graze lightly over the skin.

“Shhh…” He whispers, then, with one steadying hand on Will’s hip, shoves in all at once. Will cries out, his body pulled taught at the shock of being so full so quickly. Hannibal puts his palm to Will’s throat and uses that leverage to keep him close, to keep him from budging even an inch as Hannibal uses his wet hole.

But Will is not even remotely uninterested. His cock his half-hard (it is unlikely that it will become fully hard, but that suits Hannibal fine) and his moans have shifted from surprised to aroused—and pleasured.

“My good omega,” Hannibal practically purrs. “You feel so good around me. So hot and wet.”

He keeps the both of them on their sides, using the hand on Will’s waist and the hand on his neck to keep his mate still while he rolls his hips against Will’s ass, filling him repeatedly.

This time, Will slickens adequately as Hannibal takes him. The wet sounds of their sound out through the room, lewd and lovely and Hannibal grins against the bonding mark as he sinks his teeth into it.

“ _Ahh!_ ” Will groans. His whole body tightens around Hannibal’s cock as his cums, his fingers fumbling blindly at the sheets. Hannibal takes his hand from Will’s hip (there will be bruises in the shape of his fingerprints to admire in the morning light) and reaches out to weave their fingers together.

“Hannibal…” The voice is light and breathy, entirely worn out. He thinks Will may say something further, but instead he just groans again and squeezes their fingers together, painfully tight.

Hannibal doesn’t knot Will this time (as much as he would like to) and instead spills himself across Will’s backside instead, painting him with cum. Will shifts like he wants to reach behind him and wipe it away, but Hannibal holds him tight, not allowing Will to shift more than a few inches. He lays his ear to the side of Will’s neck and listens to his heartbeat slowly shift from its erratic beating to a slower thrum as Will drifts back to sleep in his arms. Once he is sure Will is unconscious, he untangles their limbs and rises from the bed. For the sake of satisfying his visual curiosities, he quietly clicks on the lamp on the bedside table to look clearly at the state of his omega.

His hair is soft and lovely as always, but noticeably weighed down by sweat and how Hannibal tugged insistently at the locks while they copulated. Will cheeks are still flushed, rosy pink, and Hannibal doubts the color will truly leave until the hormones are worked out of his system. His body, meanwhile, is littered with bruises and blushing love-bites that Hannibal inflicted in his passion. The mark on his shoulder, specifically, is an angry, swollen sort of red, and the bloody indents of each of Hannibal’s teeth is incredibly distinct. Hannibal will continue to bite it in the weeks to come, to ensure it remains forever on Will’s skin, just as his alpha pheromones will remain in his veins.

* * *

 

When Hannibal enters the room again, it is eight o’clock and the sun is streaming through all the windows of the house. Will’s dogs were accommodating to him, as he spent the hours sitting in Will’s living room taking care of a few things (although he did give them a piece of sausage each for their acceptance). He let them outside when they wished to, and let them back in when they yipped at the door. Gave them fresh water and gave in to a few of the younger ones’ need to receive affection. Will has them well-trained, it is true, but there cannot be so many in Hannibal’s house, especially in the center of Baltimore. Perhaps Will can keep one and Hannibal can find a nice farm for the others to inhabit. Will could visit them whenever he so desired.

Inside Will’s bedroom (with the dogs shooed away in the corridor) Hannibal finds a still sleeping Will, sweating and even more tangled in the sheets then when Hannibal left. He has been thrashing, Hannibal knows, and he regrets he had not been present to keep him safe from nightmares.

He cracks one eye open when Hannibal crawls back into the bed and moans happily when he receives a kiss (whines when it is only brief). Hannibal smiles down at Will, who is truly at his most perfect, and receives a sleepy grin in return.

“What time is it?” Will asks.

“Just past eight. You’ve slept for quite a while.”

“Haven’t slept that well in ages,” Will murmurs, yawning. He thoughtfully scrapes his teeth over the swell of his lower lip and it takes every ounce of self control to not steal that sweet flesh for himself.

“The body can sometimes fix itself, to be at its most healthy. Perhaps that is what this is.”

“This,” Will echoes. “We’re mated now.”

“Yes,” Hannibal whispers. He lays on his back and pulls Will on top of him, so he’s laid across his bare chest. “I apologize that it happened so fast. Are you pleased?”

“I think so.” A pause. “Yes. I am. I haven’t felt this good in a long time—ever, to be honest. I suppose I have you to thank for it.”

Will does not know to what degree Hannibal is responsible for his comfort, but Hannibal nods nonetheless. “You are quite welcome.”

“And for—for being patient with me. I’m sorry, I know I’ve been—“

Hannibal cuts off his unnecessary apology with a kiss, long and gentle—he finally captures that lip he so coveted. He says, “You don’t need to apologize. You have done nothing but be entirely perfect.”

Will angles his head to look into his eyes and for a moment Hannibal struggles to remember Will before this change. His memories have been contaminated to the point that all he can remember is Will like this, sweet and soft. It is now difficult to imagine him as an alpha with this lovely omega, laying atop him.

“While you slept, I took the liberty of paying a dowry price of ten thousand dollars to the District of Columbia Humane Society. Given in your name. I thought you would approve.”

Will’s mouth drops open, overwhelmed—both at the amount and at the kind gesture. His fingers grip at the hair on Hannibal’s chest, and the alpha can imagine how his darling’s heart must be aflutter.

“You didn’t have to…” Will murmurs. He shifts (all his muscles are likely sore from exertion) and when Hannibal feels his bare skin moving against his own it strangely alights all his nerves, like electricity. Will seems to feel it too (although it could be attributed the ever-insistent heat hormones, fervent in his veins), because he suddenly moans and dips his head to the junction between Hannibal’s shoulder and neck. The position places Will’s bonding mark just in reach of Hannibal’s mouth—it is too tantalizing to resist. He runs the flat of his tongue along its curve, over the flesh he’s marked as his.

“You may consider it… me spoiling you.” The words are spoken against Will’s skin, so the hot breath they ride on fans out across his skin. The sensation makes Will arch his back, bury his nose deeper to scent at Hannibal’s pheromones. Hannibal closes Will in his arms. He is aroused, but this moment is so calm, he can’t bear to break it.

* * *

Although they dwindle, the heat hormones that Hannibal gave Will do not leave entirely for a week. In that time, Hannibal arranges all the documentation necessary to have Will as his bonded omega, including sex change on all documentation (a government worker had to see Will for that to happen, as adequate signatures would not suffice). Although the government officials are skeptical on how Will could possibly have shifted status, Hannibal is able to maneuver around the negotiation process with a complaint to a close friend from the opera board with a high government position. After that, it is easy to register he and Will as mates. With a lack of guardian, Will signs off on the ten thousand dollar dowry to the Humane Society.

Then, what’s done is done. Hannibal moves Will into his home. Because Will seems so attached, he decides to keep Will’s home in addition to his own. Hannibal promises to hire someone to come by the house on days when Will cannot manage to drive all the way to Wolf Trap. The house is better than any farm for the dogs and Hannibal appreciates the idea of using it as a sort of vacation home for the two of them (after it is properly refurbished, of course) so they may leave the havoc of the city whenever they please.

Finally, after Will is properly settled into his home, he arranges with Jack for him to return to work. Hannibal knows that Will’s precious mind would wither with disuse, and that his mate is not accustomed to home life. He was an alpha, after all, until recently. Living within the traditional confines of an omega could result in Will begrudging him. Though his ultimate plan is for Will to stay home and keep up Hannibal’s household, he knows that such a lifestyle will need to be brought on his mate _slowly_. In increments.

When Hannibal comes home from his meeting with Agent Crawford (who barely puts up a fight at allowing Will to come back; he is obviously lost without him) Will kisses him with the news. Hannibal takes him to bed immediately, knots him for good measure, whispering how he’ll need to be sure to _keep away from_ _rival alphas_ and to remember _who he belongs to_. Will sobs with the pleasure and arches off the bed—promises to be good and not disappoint his alpha.

Hannibal says, “I love you,” like the words are the most precious he has to give and there are tears in Will’s eyes. They bond to one another, and it feels as if eternity has already come and gone.

 

 

 

 

_“By believing passionately in something that still does not exist, we create it. The nonexistent is whatever we have not sufficiently desired.”_

Nikos Kazantzakis

**Author's Note:**

> luvkurai.tumblr.com


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